


I Stand In California With My Toes In The Sand

by stannigram



Category: Hannibal (TV), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, F/M, Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, Jackson knows more than everyone, M/M, Minor Canonical Character(s), Mommy!Abigail, Multi, Psychological Manipulation, Slow Burn, and he is going to flaunt it, daddy!stiles, hannibal spoilers, like is that fire even burning slow, mentions of cannibalism, mentions of torture, not so evil Peter, protective!jackson
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-19
Updated: 2014-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-24 01:41:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 46,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/933646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stannigram/pseuds/stannigram
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone has believed Stiles to be dead for the last three years. Now he is back with a wardrobe of snazzy suits and holding two crying babies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You Make A Fine Shrine In Me

**Author's Note:**

> This story is told in two view points. Peter starts in the present and Stiles starts in the past(mid season 2.) For continuities sake chapters will always start with Peter and end with Stiles. So it will look something like Peter, Stiles, Peter, Stiles.  
> The title of this work is taken from the song 'Sweater Weather' by The Neighborhood. The chapter title is from Purity Ring's 'Fineshrine.'  
> I hope this wasn't to confusing. This is my first fanfiction and getting everyones voices down is really hard. D:

Peter got _the call_ when he was in the middle of stuffing a turkey full of seasoned bread and green apples. He let it ring until he was finished with the turkey.

Wiping his hands, he answered the call, “If this call pertains to my dearest nephew, Derek, and or the worst mistake I made in my life, Scott, and their inability to answer their phones I am hanging up right now.” Peter said as he focused on cutting up sweet potatoes—using a little too much force to chop them into tiny pieces.

He imagined Isaac dramatically rolling his eyes as he said, “Do you really think anyone would actually call you if they couldn’t reach Derek or Scott. No one likes you, Peter.” Isaac said jokingly—ever since the Alpha Pack ‘Debacle’ of 2012 the pack had become closer—warming up to the idea of not-so-evil Peter who was still evil enough to kill innocent people if it got the job done faster, but was not so evil as to randomly kill off his pack.  

“Your words wound me, Isaac. I thought we were all getting along so well.” Dusting a little cinnamon of the potatoes and getting out the bag marshmallows, he asked in his silky smooth voice, “And to what do I owe the pleasure of this call?” making spectacle of opening the bag so Isaac could hear it over the phone.

“Are you making the Hale-A-Good Sweet Potatoes for diner tonight?” Isaac asked excitedly. If there was one thing in this world Isaac loved more than Cora it was the Hale family recipe for sweet potatoes, and Peter would use this to his advantage to end the call as fast as possible.

“It depends on how this call goes.” Peter said steely, hoping his plan to hurry up and end the call was working.

“I am not sure how to say this—”

“It is simple. I like to use a little technique I like to call  ‘just say it.’”

It was quiet on the other line for a while.

“Guess who came in for a coffee today before I went on lunch break?” Isaac asked hesitantly.

"Jackson.” Peter guessed sarcastically.

“What? No. Why would I call you if Jackson came to the dinner?”

Peter sighed agitatedly, “well, who was it then?”

“Stiles.”

Peter heard himself distantly say, “oh,” felt the phone slipping from his hands; saw it crashing to the ground. He found himself curling his upper body around his knees on the floor, but he couldn't remember how he got there. Or why the marshmallows were scattering the hardwood floor of the Stilinski’s kitchen.  

He was vaguely aware of Isaac asking if Peter was all right on the other side of the phone. Vaguely aware of Isaac screaming about breaking Peter and how much trouble he was going to be in with Derek and Cora. But, Peter couldn't bring himself to care. Stiles was alive, and that is all that mattered.

\--             

Limping hurriedly, Stiles pushed his way through the crowded club—using the gyrating mass and flickering lights to hide himself from the silent assailants disguising themselves in the movement of the crowd: disguising themselves in the shadows only to coming darting out in the blinding light, fingers brushing teasingly against his skin, disturbing smiles sprawling across their sinister faces, never quiet reaching their eyes, and it frightened Stiles into immobility until he was left alone in the darkness of a moment, his body awakening as adrenal fluid pumped to his heart; jolting his body forward and moving him forward in an endless struggle to survive.

They had initiated a game of hunter and prey. Prey, prey that is all Stiles was. Beaten and drugged and released in the sea of twisting men and women to play a sadistic, twisted, fucked up version of hide-and-seek. Except there was no ‘tag, you’re it.’ It was more like ‘tag, you’re dead.’ There is no pleasure, no fun, in losing this game—only pain and desolation were awarded to the losing party. The loser could only pride himself in the desolation of his death.

No one noticed blood dribbling down the pale skin of his face. No one noticed the purpling eye. No one noticed the limp. Noticed the distress—the hints of oncoming panic attack. And, if they did they said nothing. Stiles saw one of _them_ talking to the DJ, the DJ changed the song to a slower unnerving song.

Erratic beats of a synthesizer created a hypnotic, calming, dizzying melody graced with a dreamlike voice. He saw guys opening their partner’s body at their sternums, reaching into their chest cavities, and pulling their little ribs around them like a suit jacket they would wear to a high class diner party. Blood dripping down the bodies in rivets, soaking their pricey attire in red liquid, laughing manically as they snaked around each other; twirling and tangling as emerald lights cast eerie figures on the floor.

He could feel: sweat and blood trickling down his face, his vision shifting turning his world upside down; his breath laboring as he dodged in and out of people. He couldn't keep his mind focused. One second his legs where slowing tiredly in the dark reality of a dodgy club; the next his mom’s dead eyes were staring him back at him, her hand’s dangling limply by her sides, her mouth perched eternally as she screamed, “run, Stiles, run!”

“Stiles?” An all to familiar, albeit concerned, voice reached out over the loud thrumming music and his mothers screams. “Stiles?” It came again to him, and he really shouldn't be able to here that voice: he had watched as Derek silt the throat on the body of that voice, had watched as the body of the voice died in a pyre of flames, had watched as Scott and Derek buried the voice’s body, and Stiles was certain dead people can’t talk. Stiles chalked it up to the drugs invading his system, and the endorphins already pumping through his system.

Besides, it wouldn’t be the first time Stiles had dreamed of him after his death. But, it was the first time Peter was dancing with another man—grinding his hip’s against another’s, his finger’s kneading at a firm ass, chest’s touching as they swayed their bodies along to the music. Stiles couldn’t stop his heart from clinching as the unknown man kissed obscenely at Peter’s neck.

“Peter?” Stiles inhaled a pained breath, trying not to cry, hoping Peter couldn’t see the pain he was causing Stiles.

Peter was bat-shit-psychopathic-killer crazy, but Stiles’ couldn’t deny that he had felt an undeniable spark between them—underneath all the threatening and fear—he felt himself being pulled—being tugged—tied—oh god, he felt so tried—so dizzy—so weak. He could feel his legs giving out, his body crashing to the floor, his vision blurring as the dead rose petals fell out of his hand, littering the floor.

Laughing feverishly at the hilarity of his tragic luck as Purity Ring’s Fine Shrine whispered in his ear, soothingly egging him to, “listen closely, closely to the floor, emitting graces through its pores,” Stiles could see their blood bleeding up from the floor through it’s pores; see the red liquid coagulating into bubbles like effervescent sea forth; see it floating towards the ceiling like balloons let loose by a child, his laughs turning into cries for help as the undeniable fear set in, and the song continued,  “you make a fine shrine in me, you build a fine shrine—”his brain catching on the word shrine. Playing it over and over, fixating on the woman’s angelic tone, and unnerving Stiles in its never-ending cycle.

Distantly he could hear Peter screaming, “Don’t touch him!” over the blaring music—over the eerie sequence replaying in Stiles’ mind—and Stiles reached for him, feeling Peter’s hand filling his, squeezing reassuringly. Stiles’ could feel the smile forming on his face before his subconscious took him to the darkest depths of the darkest ocean.

\-- 

Peter left the Stilinski’s house. Walking up to the brunt down shell of the Hale house, he set an alarm on his phone.  He was giving himself an hour to reminisce before getting back to making Thanksgiving diner and cleaning the house.

He hadn’t been here since his reincarnation—too many good memories; too many bad memories: little pups running across the white floor, Talia in the kitchen holding Derek in her arms, Laura bringing her first boyfriend home, the fire, being set on fire again, dying.

They danced across his vision, playing their little werewolf games, running around in their beta forms like the people dancing across the ballroom scene in his daughter’s favorite movie, Anastasia. Flames licking up the sides of their translucent bodies. Burning up as they screamed for Peter’s help. Remembering, how he turned his back on them as he desperately fought to escape the burning house.

He moved forward remaining seemingly apathetic to memories until he was in the room he had sat with Stiles for three days—pressing wet towels to feverish head—as they had waited for the drugs to leave Stiles system. He lay down in the bed sickened by the memoires of what he allowed to pass between them that night.

Peter buried his face in the bed he caught the faint musky smell of Stiles come lingering on the sheets. Pulling Stiles old red hoodie tighter around his body to prevent the breeze from chilling him.

\-- 

“So you used Lydia to bring you back from the dead with some of your were-wolfy magic?” Stiles asked coming out of his drug-induced haze.

“Yes. It is not one of my finer moments, I admit, but it got the job done.” as Peter pressing a cold cloth to Stiles’ head.

“Just like killing your niece wasn’t one of your finer moments? Or like when you killed all those people.” Stiles retorted.

Peter winced. “Your avoiding my question Stiles. If we are going to play the count-everything-Peter-has-done-wrong game instead of talk about why Stiles-was-drugged-in-a-club then I am leaving.” Peter said standing up and turning to leave.

“No, stay.” Stiles pleaded, grabbing Peter’s wrist and tugging gently to pull Peter into the bed with Stiles.

Sighing Peter said, “You give a dog a bone—” Stiles cut him off as he wrapped his legs around Peter’s hips. Straddling Peter, Stiles pushed Peter down on his back, whispering hoarsely, “Dog jokes are kind of my thing, old man.”

Grinding down, Stiles pressed their crotches together—neither of them erect but Stiles’ was trying desperately to work them up.  His hands trailing slowly, frantically, up Peter’s thighs and slipping clumsily under his shirt as he felt Peter’s body up.

“Stiles, stop.” Peter commanded, reaching up to wipe away the tears forming around Stiles’ eyes with one hand, and his other hand stilling Stiles’ uncontrollably undulating body.

 Stiles stopped. “Do you want this Peter?”

Peter’s blue eyes, hauntingly expressive in the pale moonlight, reflected the war raging inside of Peter. “Yes. I do. I do, really, but not like this, Stiles. Not like this.”

And, Stiles had to agree this was not how he wanted this to go. He fantasized hot kinky sex in elevator with Peter pushing his face into the wall, or the slow lovemaking where Peter would praise his body with delicate kisses and tickling touches. Not this frantic clumsy thrusting of his hips as hands searched frantically for purchase on Peter’s skin. Not on Derek’s old bed in the house Peter had watched his family burn in.

But, Stiles didn’t have much more time to do this—to feel Peter’s body against his, and Stiles needed to feel Peter against his mouth before Stiles was gone.

Peter must have seen his desperation because he moved his hand gently up and around Stiles body in swift motion: resting his hand on Stiles neck, pulling Stiles down towards him, capturing Stiles lips in nauseating kiss, swallowing Stiles moans in his mouth as they both came in their jeans.

Stiles watched as Peter feel asleep.

“It’s to bad we will never get to explore this side of our relationship.” Stiles said to a sleeping Peter, brushing his hands through Peter’s disheveled hair. “I think we could have been so much more than we are now. We might have been happy even.” He said placing a kiss goodbye to Peter’s lips.

He left his red hoodie on the end of the bed. He had a feeling Peter was going to need it when he was no longer around. Stiles left the house in the night feeling surprisingly numb.

\-- 

Peter opened the door to Stiles’ room, standing just on the threshold of an ugly past. The room was untouched—a shrine in it’s own way—left exactly like it had been three years ago when the crime scene investigator’s had taken over: number cards collecting dust over the scrapes of evidence, blood smeared against Stiles’ blue walls as he grabbed at the walls, chips of paint littering the white carpet where Stiles had dug his nails into the walls in a desperate attempt slow his attackers. 

Walking into the room Peter could smell the ruminants of fear and panic Stiles had felt in his last minutes of his freedom. It was overwhelming, and the scents angered Peter to no end—because he hand not picked up on the signs earlier—hadn’t noticed the roses or the way Stiles was closing himself off form the others—hadn’t taken the time to ask when he had seen the desperation in Stiles’ eyes.

Peter sprayed cinnamon air fresher in the room as if would mask all the wrong committed in this one room. So he didn’t wolf out, and cause more damage than there already was. The smell calmed him ever so slightly. 

 Peter picked up a paintbrush as he rolled over the bloodstains on the walls, careful not to get paint on Stiles’ red hoodie. It would take another coat of paint to get rid of the stains, but they would have to do for now. Peter could sleep in Stiles’ room when Stiles arrived, and Stiles could take his room until they figured out their arrangements.

Putting the paintbrush down, Peter pulled out objects from his pockets and laid them out on Stiles’ bed. He had Stiles’ keys, his phone, and Stiles’ paper on the history of the male circumcision all sprawling around one of the last good pictures of Stiles the soft comforter—he was smiling goofily with his arm around his father.  What can he say; Stiles had made a shrine in him.

Peter picked up at the phone and stared at it irately as he remembered receiving Stiles’ last voicemail. Remembered breaking down the Stilinski’s back door only to find the front had be left open. Remembered seeing the blood trailing down the stairs. Remembered the smell of Stiles’ blood feeling his nostrils. Remembered the loud distraught howl he released hoping somewhere, somehow that Stiles would here it and know he would be missed.

\-- 

Stiles was wildly packing his lacrosse bag in his room. There wasn’t much time left. The bouquet of dead roses had arrived earlier that day. Meaning they would be here by the end of the night, and Stiles wasn’t sticking around to experience the worst beating of his short miserable life.

Reaching for his phone Stiles heard: footsteps on the porch, the picking of a lock, the turning of the nob, the door squeaking open, the clunk of steal toed boots hitting the hard wood of his hallway, the metal scraping occasionally against the stairs. He realized didn’t have much time now. He threw his lacrosse bag into his closet as he shut the door noiselessly behind him.

Picking up his phone he called Scott. No answer—no big surprise there—so he called Derek. Also no answer—God, they needed to discuss their inability to answer a god damned phone! He would have left heated voice mails, and sent strongly worded texts. But, he was running out of time. He needed someone with supernatural strength, and he need them now.

Sighing, Stiles frantically picked up his phone and dialed a number. He knew whom he needed, and he needed him now.

“Oh god, Peter, please pick up your phone. Pick up. Pick up. Pick up.” Stiles pleaded, sobbing, into the receiver. “Fuck.” He said when he got the answering machine. Whispering panicked into the phone Stiles cried, “Peter. I am so sorry, so sorry. For—oh god, they’re here. Promise me—fuck, Peter—promise me you’ll take care of my father.  There are recipes in drawer beneath the stove. Make sure he eats three times a day.” Stiles rushed, finishing urgently as the closet door opened, light bleeding into the darkness of the closet. “You won’t find my body. Don’t forget my dad. Remember three times a day, okay?” And with that Stiles dropped his phone on his duffel bag to stand defiantly, toe-to-toe with his attackers.

\-- 

Stiles was fleeting in and out of consciousness. He came too long enough to hear a lonely howl filling the silence—a wolf calling out for a lost pack member. And, he could only hope Peter would make it through this without becoming a psychotic killer again. 


	2. Does It Almost Feel Like Nothing Changed At All

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter! Woo-woo! So Jackson and Stiles accidentally bromanced in this chapter and he is pretty protective of Stiles so yeah... There's something to look forward to? Enjoy. :)

“Is that my baby?” Peter heard Stiles bellowing outside. “Come to Papa!” Peter imagines Stiles laying his body against the hood of the Jeep, patting it reassuringly. “I bet they left you all alone, never satisfying. Don't worry, I am going to ride you good, baby. All day long. Just the way you like it.”

“You might want to move this to a garage before things get heated.” Peter says stepping threw the front door. Shocked when he didn’t find Stiles lazing against the hood of his jeep.  Instead finding Stiles pushing a stroller in a red suit staring longingly at the Jeep—like he had found a long lost friend. And, if Peter was jealous of an inanimate object no one needed to know.

Turning around, Stiles stops dead in his tracks when he realizes it is Peter who was talking to him. Peter could hear Stiles’ heart stopping. At first he thought Stiles was taken aback by Peter undeniable natural beauty, but the smell of overwhelming fear murders his ego.

“Peter?” Wheezing frighteningly, Stiles says,  “what are you doing here?”

Peter raises an eyebrow. “Making Thanksgiving Diner?”

“Peter Hale making Thanksgiving diner in the Stilinski house?” Stiles asks incredulously. Trying to pretend he was unafraid but Peter could smell he wasn’t.

“I never got to tell you, but I made a promise to you Stiles. I may do a lot of things, but I do not break my promises.”

“And what promise was that?”

“To take care of your dad.” Peter says softly as he watches Stiles eyes widen in disbelief and a small smile graces his face. “Why don’t you come in?” Peter asks smoothly.

Stiles nods, “Do you mind helping me get them up the stairs?” He asks as he points to the babies in the stroller.

“I’d love too.” Peter says as Stiles picks up both babies, and hands them to Peter as he set to work dismantling the stroller. Telling Peter not to wake them because it had taken Stiles a long time to get them to fall asleep.

 Peter admires Stiles’ butt when he bends over, and Stiles’ frets over the possibility of Peter waking his sleeping children. Taking the time, Peter appreciates Stiles’ new sense of style: he was dressed in a red tailored suit, red suit-jacket emphasizing the lean torso underneath, navy blue accentuating the starkness of his pallid skin, pants clinging tightly to his toned bum. It looks _really_ good on Stiles, but it makes Peter feel terribly underdressed.

After finishing, Peter holds the babies as they walk into the house. He smells dread and anxiety coming off Stiles as he opens the door. He feels Stiles stopping on the threshold of the door, face contorting in revulsion as he remembers what the horrendous acts committed here, tears forming in his eyes as he looks around the hallway.

Peter steps closer trying to calm him, but it is hard to console Stiles when his hands full of baby. Stiles wasn’t even paying attention—standing frozen in the memories of the evils committed to him in this hallway, drowning in the agony created by the brutality of the attack reverberating within the four walls that caged him inside of his own mind, hands clenching at his side. Peter attempts to reach his hand out to Stiles to give Stiles something real—something tangible—to tether him to the present. To reality.

\--  

Time slows.

Stiles sees the blood splattering the tan walls, the blood dribbling down to pool at the bottom of the stairs, the finger nails embedding in the floor as he sought desperately for purchase, nails breaking as he grasped for the walls trying to crawl away. Sees himself kicking the taller man’s hands from the firm hold on his leg. Sees the punch to the shorter man’s jaw. Sees himself lunging pass them towards the open door only to be pulled back, banging his head on the floor. Sees the exact moment when he realizes it is his own blood covering the pictures of his mom hanging on the walls. Sees the fight draining out of his body as he is flung lifelessly over the taller one’s shoulder. Hears his horrendous cries and fearful pleas dying in the commotion of a car engine starting. Hears the gravel hitting the shiny metal as the car dives into the darkness of the night. Feels himself breaking, sobbing into the uncomfortable seats of the unknown car as the reality of situation hits him.

\--  

Stiles’ head snaps to Peter’s hand. Stiles eyes it suspiciously looking up at Peter and back down at his hand. “No.” Stiles said quietly. “No, I need to do this myself.” Peter hears Stiles’ heart faltering over the lie, and it hurt because he was starting to believe Stiles didn’t trust him. “Just give me a moment.”

Peter nods and goes into the kitchen. He hears Stiles moving slowly through the house. Hears fingertips brushing senselessly over

 He is watching the babies, a girl and a boy, as they sleep in his arms when Stiles enters the kitchen.

“You look cute with them like a papa wolf with his pups.” Stiles says tilting his head thoughtfully as he leans his body against the table.

Peter huffs before asking, “You going to be okay?”

“I will be.” Stiles replies gloomily.

Peter couldn’t keep his eyes off of Stiles—mostly because he was afraid Stiles would have a breakdown—as they talked about diner in the kitchen. Stiles had grown in to his body well over the past three years. He was no longer the goofy kid flailing his arms around as he tried to get his point across. There was a controlled confidence in the way he held himself like a man who had survived a lifetime in Hell, but you could see the kinks in his armor—the hints of distress—when he slouched in on himself, or when his hands shook uncontrollably when he thought Peter couldn’t see. It was as if he was struggling to stay strong against whatever hellish visions sieging him while the nightmares raged against his carefully place armor, seeping in the weakest points, sinking in to Stiles flesh and taking root in him.

When Peter looks at Stiles’ face he sees the damaging effects of the nightmares that plague him. His cheeks had hallowed in the years he had been gone—most likely from a poor diet—making his cheeks protrude in a terrifying way. Purple bags encircled his eyes—from sleepless nights—where Stiles had applied heavy amounts of make up in an effort to hide them. Pink lips chapped—form where teeth had chewed nervously at its flesh—where Stiles had forgotten to apply Chap Stick. It would have been disconcerting if it weren’t for the fierce determination reflecting in Stiles’ eyes. 

 Stiles caught Peter stealing glimpses and starts fidgeting with the buttons on his jackets. “Do you think it’s too much? Suits are all I have.”

“Your entire wardrobe consists entirely of suits.” Peter says disbelievingly.

Stiles hums in agreement, “bad habit I picked up from,” Stiles pauses, pensively, before saying, “an old acquaintance.” The way Stiles lingers on the word makes Peter believe they had been more than mere acquaintances once.

“Acquaintances?” Peter probes, raising an eyebrow in askance.

“I guess you could say he was more like my savior.” Stiles says frowning. “I think I am going to lay my babies down for a nap in the guest room.”

\--  

He is descending further and further into the sea of bleakness.

Shadows veiling his vision until all he sees is the glaring hopelessness growing within his own soul.

Blackness binding tightly to his soul, covering his soul in disease, dimming the light that shined brightly inside of him, killing his hope, leaving him alone in the fading light.

Floating.

Floating.

Floating, deeper into the darkness.

Alone.

Stiles is vaguely aware he is dying—he supposes it had to happen eventually. Reasoning with himself, he prepares for the worst as he titters on the brink of consciousness. All to aware of the screams, the torture, the distraught peals for help resonating off the walls around him but unable to find it in himself to move, to help, to open his eyes. All to aware of the sound of the door opening, of the vibrations of silent footsteps coursing through the floor, of his body bracing for the oncoming attack. Could hear his weak wavering heart beat pumping wildly in one final attempt to push Stiles into attack.

When nothing happened Stiles struggled to open his eyes, squinting in the harshness of the light.

A blurry image of a man clouded his vision as he adjusted to the sudden brightness. His face was haloed in white light. Leathery skin stretched snugly over the cheekbones protruding under his indifferent eyes. Blood splattered across his thin lips. He looked apathetically down at Stiles like he dealt with death often—becoming immune to the wounds it left. Stiles wondered idly if this was what an angel of death would look like.

“I am no angel,” the man said his words slurring together in an unrecognizable accent. Stiles stared confusedly up at him before realizing he had been talking out loud again. “You have been poisoned, and you are suffering grave injures. Can you stand?”

Stiles just gawks at the man before strong arms pull him up as the man carried him out of the room. He closed his eyes as he saw the carnage that muddled the floors. Shutting his eyes to block out the bodies pilled up in the rooms. —he didn’t want to taint what was left of his soiled soul.

He is being put in a car when he opens his eyes again, and then they are driving away from the nightmarish house. They didn’t speak as the rows of house formed into giant trees, their leaves green from the first spring showers.  They didn’t speak as the busy winding roads became empty and narrow. Didn’t speak when the man pulled over to get Stiles some water. Didn’t speak when the man patched Stiles up and gave him medicines. Didn’t speak when Stiles smelled the dying body’s starting to decay in the back seat. Didn’t speak when Stiles leaned his head against the window, dirtying its cleanness with his poisoned blood.

The smooth melodic pieces of Frederic Chopin fill the silence lulling Stiles into unconsciousness. When he wakes Stiles had no idea where they are. A sign reads ’38 Miles to Wolf Trap Virginia.’

The man pulls over.

“I fear this is where we part our ways.” He says pulling out the dead bodies, and dragging them into the darkened woods.

Leaving Stiles standing terrified and alone in the darkened highway. 

\--  

Peter opens the door slightly. The light streaming in through the window, illuminating the pale skin of Stiles face. His eyes turning a stunning honey color in the fading sunlight. Lips pursing together as he whistled the beginning of a gloomy tune. 

Peter sees the babies sleeping on the floor, draped in Stiles’ red suit jacket. Stiles curls around them watching them sleeping peacefully—running his finger down their noises, placing soft kisses on their foreheads, signing a lullaby in a language Peter had never heard. It is a slow moment hovering on the edge of time. A moment when time slows down, and your troubles disappear from your sight. Just the parent and the child, and nothing matters more than them.

Peter remembers moments like these, when his wife and daughter were cuddled next to him. He feels guilty stealing this moment from them, for disrupting this little glimmer of happiness that Stiles was basking in.

He coughs.  “Isaac, Scott, Allison, and Derek have just arrived. Jackson, Danny, Lydia and your dad are on their way now. If you would like to come down stairs and visit.” Peter says gently, trying not to wake the sleeping children.

Stiles nods, “I’ll be down in a second.”

Peter nods and heads downstairs.

“Where’s Stiles?” Derek asks demandingly as Peter reaches the last step. “What have you done to him?” Balling his fists, Derek glares threateningly at Peter.

Peter rolls his eyes thinking of a cutting remark—something that wouldn’t reveal his affections for the boy—when a shriek shrill of laughter disrupts his thoughts. It is damaging to his werewolf hearing. He clasps his hands over his ears tightly and closed his eyes to block out the noise.

“Sorry ‘bout that. She gets really excited when we go downstairs.” Stiles says, walking down the stairs. “I’m still not sure why.”

Everyone stares at Stiles as if he were a ghost, a floating apparition appearing out of the darkness of the hallway, mouths gaping in disbelief at the boy standing at the bottom of the stairs. Training their eyes on him like wolves honing in on their prey, afraid to glance away from him. Afraid he would disappear. Afraid they wouldn’t get to say goodbye. Again. It was a feeling Peter had been getting used to all day—to the idea he could reach out and touch Stiles, and touch something real. Not an illusion, or a trick of the mind. It is a feeling they would all get used to eventually—in a few weeks, months, years even.

“Stiles?” Scott asks doubtfully like he isn’t sure if Stiles was real, or if he is just a phantom of his best friend caught in the glint of the setting sun flashing through the window.

“Yeah that's my name, Scott my man. I’d give you a hug, but you know, my hands are a little preoccupied at the moment.” Stiles says rearranging the babies in his arms. “Want to hold one?” He says looking at Scott.

“Sure.” Scott says grabbing for the boy. “What is his name?”

“John-Scott.” Stiles answers placing the boy in Scott’s arms, “I couldn’t decide who I wanted to name him after more—you or my dad. Their mother decided it would be easiest to give him both your names.” Stiles said and Scott preens at the information. Eyes a light in wonder at the little bundle of life he was holding in his arms. Allison came closer to peer over Scotts shoulder, looking at the baby, “Hi, Stiles.” She said looking up and smiling at him.

“Hey, Allison.” Stiles smiles back before turning his attention to Isaac and Derek. “Want to hold her, Isaac?” Asking Isaac.

“Yeah.” And Stiles passes her to Isaac. He laughs as Isaac awkwardly holds her at arms length from his body. Suddenly, Derek was crashing their bodies together, arms wrapping protectively around Stiles, and burying his face in Stiles’ neck. Peter felt jealousy creeping out of its hiding place, and he fought to push it back in.  

“Hey there, big fella’. I missed you too.” Stiles says patting Derek reassuringly on the back.

“We thought you were dead.” Derek voiced, stifled against the red fabrics on Stiles’ shoulder.

“There were times I wish I was.” Stiles said voice indifferent to the heaviness of its statement.  And God, if that didn’t kill the joyful mood in the room. Peter didn’t know what would. Blessed Isaac with his ability to pick up on the doom and gloom a room, and eradicate it however he saw fit. Usually with rainbows and buttercups, but this time he chose a simple question as his weapon of choice. “What is her name?” He asked Stiles as he held the baby awkwardly at him.

“I call her Laura.” Stiles said softly, smiling at Isaac holding his baby girl. Derek and Peter’s eyes grew in surprise, and then a honest-to-goodness smile spread across Derek’s face as Isaac put Laura in Derek’s arms. Peter had never seen Derek look so proud in his life.

“And you made these?” Isaac asks in awe. Stiles huffs a laugh as he nods.

“How old are they, Stiles? They are awful tiny.” Allison asks concerned.

“They will be seven months tomorrow, but they should be four months.” Stiles explains.

“Should be?” Peter presses.

“There was, uh, an emergency. The doctor’s preformed an emergency C-Section. The twins were born three months prematurely.”   

"Can babies even survive being born that early?" Someone asks. 

“Can babies even survive living with you, Stilinski?” Came the annoying draw of Jackson’s voice from the hallway.

“Oh my god. You don’t have to be such an asshole about this all the time, Whittemore. And, yes, for your information they obviously can.” Stiles snapped.

Jackson smiles smugly as he walks into the room with Lydia attached at his hip. “Flight?”

“Long and tiring. Thanks for asking. How’s Harvard?”

“B-O-ring.” Jackson says making a face. “Milo is still a total douche-bag.”

"Takes one to know one Whit-"

“I’m sorry, but are we missing something here. How could you possibly know Jackson was at Harvard, Stiles?” Peter asks

“Jackson is the Godfather of my children.” Stiles’ answer is question than statement.

“We ran into each other a few times. I was present for their births.” Jackson clarifies for Stiles.

“And you didn’t think you should inform us that Stiles was alive?” Peter asked incredulously.

“It wasn’t my problem.”

Lydia screeched, “Jackson.” While everyone else groaned in disbelief.

A whistle came from the opening into the living room, “Looking good Stiles. That suit fits you nicely.” Danny complimented Stiles, receiving a growl from Ethan.

“See Danny, I am attractive to gay guys.” Stiles said looking thrilled before turning to the twins and saying, “Names Stiles, though you probably knew that already. Seeing as I am the only one you don’t know and Danny just called me Stiles.” Stiles rambled.

“Yes. We have heard a lot about you. My name is Ethan and this is my brother Aiden.” The shorter one introduces them stepping between Stiles and Danny.

Stiles looks around confused when he realizes two people are missing. “Uh, are Erica and Boyd coming?”

An elegiac silence settles over the room. Everyone looking explaining how Gerard. Peter almost expected everyone to start playing nose-goes to see who got to explain their deaths to Stiles.

Sighing, Peter starts the tale. Beginning with Erica and Boyd’s kidnapping, explaining how they ran away only to be picked up by the Alpha Pack, and held captive in the Bank where Erica meet her untimely death. He recreates the attempt to rescue Boyd in facetious prose, skipping over his and Cora’s escape, and picking when Boyd had the brilliant plan to catch the Alpha’s. He had just begun recounting the Boyd’s final match with Kali in Derek’s house when he heard heavy footfalls making their way to the crowded living room.

 “Son?” The distraught voice of the Sheriff rang throughout the room. Silencing everyone as they watched Stiles turn around. His jaw slackening, eyes searching for injuries on Stiles’ body, tears brimming at the corner of his eyes, and then the Sheriff was stepping forward yanking his son into a tight embrace. “I thought I had lost you, Stiles.”

The anguish and remorse wafting off Stiles was nauseating to the wolves. “Dad, I—God—I am so sor—” Stiles said hugging his dad hard.

“No, don’t you dare apologize to me. I am just glad you found your way back home. All that matters is you're here now.”

Stiles pulls away, wiping his tears and says, “Dad, there are two people I want you to meet.” Stiles said dragging his dad over to Scott and Derek. “Dad this is Laura and John-Scott Stilinski.” Stiles said smiling as Scott handed them over to the Sheriff.

“I’m going to be a granddad?” The Sheriff asks proudly.

“You’re not _going_ to be. You _are_ one.” Stiles said beaming at his dad’s loving interactions with his grandchildren. 

“Where is their mother?” Isaac asks

“None of your business, Lahey.” Jackson says glowering at Isaac.

Changing the subject fast, the Sheriff says, “they must have gotten their eyes from their mother,” as observes the blue-eyes of his grandchildren.

“That they did, Daddy-o. Along with her hands, her hair, and her chin. Poor things got cursed my nose and cheekbones.” Stiles grumbled

“You have a beautiful nose.” Scott praised.

“Thanks, man.” Stiles smiled goofily at him, patting him on the back.

“Where have you been all this time, son?” The Sheriff ask before the two could gush amorously at each other.

“Here and there. Virginia, mostly.” Stiles says, playing with the navy tie hanging down his body.

“What’s in Virginia?” Derek asks.

“A farmhouse.” Stiles says looking away from everyone.

\--  

Stiles doesn’t make a noise when the car squeals as the person driving slams on their breaks. Doesn’t flinch when they walk, silhouetted by the headlights, towards him. Doesn’t plead for help as he drags his body forward, hand stretching out for assistance. Doesn’t smile as the man wraps him up in blankets and helps him to the car. Doesn’t stay awake as the man fusses over what to do with him—take him to the hospital or to his home.

Doesn’t scream when he jolts awake, thrashing his arms, and gasping for breath in a room he has never seen before. Doesn’t question the I.V. dripping blood into his veins. Doesn’t freak out when he finds the man holding his hand as he sleeps—head drooping on his own shoulder. Doesn’t feel warm and fuzzy inside because he survived, and there is a man caring for him.

 Doesn’t answer when the F.B.I comes to ask him questions. Doesn’t tell them why his torso is mutilated. Or why he was walking the highway in the middle of the night. Doesn’t describe the man with the callous eyes because he was pretty sure he was a murder. Doesn’t enlighten them about his father back in Beacon Hills. Doesn’t pay attention when they discuss treatments and cases. Doesn’t rejoice when the Doctor tells him he is fully recovered and can leave in a few hours. 

Doesn’t sleep on the way to the man’s house. Doesn’t compliment its cute farm house-y-ness when they pull up. Doesn’t pet the dogs surrounding him in a sea of welcomes when they walk through the door. Doesn’t frown at the messiness of the house. Doesn’t complain when the man is dressing him in oversized clothes and pushing him towards his bed.

Doesn’t drink the soup when the man tries feeding him through a straw. Doesn’t feel awkward when the man strips him down, and helps him into the tub. Doesn’t hide his body as the man runs the cloth down his body, cleansing him of the pus weeping from his wounds. Doesn’t thank him when he rubs soothingly at Stiles back as Stiles vomits his insides into the toilet.

He just sits and stares at the ceiling in the routine of his silence.  As blanket cascade down around him, head being pillowed on the man thigh, a hand squeezing his comfortingly, Stiles can’t bring himself to care that the man is falling asleep with his head against the sink cabinet just to make sure Stiles wouldn’t off himself in the night.

Stiles feels hollow inside like a tree that had its insides slowly eaten out by maggots and disease. Like he was an empty shell waiting for a lumber-jack to come and chop him down. He was on the verge of breaking. A time bomb, all it would take is one little thing and he would fall with a loud CRACK. So he sought comfort in the silence where he could wallow in the belief nothing had changed at all. If he spoke everything that happened to him would be cemented in history, and he couldn’t fool himself into thinking things would go back to the way things had once been.

Pulling himself out of those thoughts, Stiles looked up at the man. He wasn’t like the ‘angel of death’ who had saved him weeks ago.  His eyes weren’t cold and desolate of emotion. Instead they seemed to show too much emotion in their blue depths.  He hid them behind the lenses of glasses and Stiles thought he wore them to distort the images he saw inside his head. Tried to warp the evidence before he could see it. Before it hurt him. Before it would leave an irreparable scar on his mind.

Stiles looked at the greying brown curls and wondered if the nightmares are the cause of his premature greying hair. Wondered if the nightmares make him forget to shave the stubble growing around his lips in the morning. Wondered if that is why he forgot to eat breakfast in the morning, or why he wrote lectures late into the morning hours. His mind wondering Stiles murmured a quiet, “thank you,” into the silence of the room as he drifted off to sleep.

  There is something gently pushing at his shoulder, rousing him from his sleep. The man’s face is dangling dangerously close to Stiles’. “You weren’t breathing.” The man says, and Stiles pushes the man grumpily away so he can roll over.

Pushing, he sat up rolling his shoulders and stretching. “I guess I should have introduced myself earlier. My name is Will Graham.” The man says steadily. Stiles just continues to move throughout the house without speaking to the man.

“I am sorry. I am not equipped to handle this situation. I usually avoid situations that require me to be sociable. You would be better off with Dr. Bloom.” Stiles liked gruffness of the man’s tone of voice. The way it moved lyrically through its utterance. They way it enunciated its sardonic notes. How it pronounced its fear, without hesitance, to the world.  It was imperfect. Riddled in anxiety and empathy, it hid its ability to express its gentleness in its overpowering cynicism. He reveled in its imperfection. It made the man human. It made Stiles feel safe around the man—compared to the callous eyed man’s perfectly calculated inhuman way of speaking which made him afraid of the man’s intentions. 

And still, Stiles doesn’t say anything as they move downstairs and out the door. Doesn’t say anything the man, Will, maneuvers him into one of the chairs on the porch of the farmhouse—wrapping him in a blanket. Doesn’t say anything as Will places a glass of Scotch in Stiles’ hands.

And, neither of them utters a word as they sip at their Scotch watching the rising sun bring light to the Virginia farmlands.

\-- 

Stiles is asking everyone about things as they pass bowls around the table. Things Peter already knows like how Scott, Isaac, Danny and the twins are attending Beacon Hills’ local community college, how Allison will be away at Berkley in winter, how Jackson is studying to become a lawyer at Harvard, and how Lydia is starting her degree in mathematics at Harvard as well because she wanted to be close to Jackson. And yes, Stiles everyone was still as romantically invested as they had before you were taken. And no, Stiles, Scott was no longer a beta. Yes, Derek relinquished his ‘Big Bad Aphla-y’ powers, and yes, that was a story for another time.

With everyone laughing and joking around, Peter could close his eyes and imagine nothing had changed at all. If it weren’t for the sullen looks that fleeted sporadically across Stiles face, or Jackson sitting protectively next to Stiles—deflecting any questions about Stiles’ past they directed at him. If it weren't for the way Stiles avoided eating the food placed in front of him like it was pestilence, or the babies he was feeding through a bottle in his hands.

Peter offers him a slice of the turkey.

Stiles shakes his head. “Not to be rude, but I am not particularly fond of foods I don’t make myself. You know, the whole ‘my body is my steeple’ kinda thing—don’t want to dirty it with sullied food.”

And ouch, that hurt. Peter was really starting to feel the pain of Stiles' I-don't-trust-you-ness going on. 

As they eat, Stiles proposes they take all take a trip to the beach tomorrow.  Everyone argues that is too cold to go swimming in the ocean, but Stiles manages to commandeer everyone into agreeing with him. They set the meet up time for 2 o’clock. They decide North Shore would be the easiest meeting place, and with that everyone said their goodbyes for the night. Peter, the Sheriff, and Stiles remain in the house with the babies. 

Peter and the Sheriff clean up the dishes together, and Stiles excuses himself to change his babies.

“I made arrangements for lodging else where. In case you don't want me here.” Stiles says standing stiffly in the middle of the doorway.  He seemed aloof to their reactions but his

“Of course we want you here.” Peter says truthfully as they make their way into the living room. Sitting in his chair, Peter feels his eyelids dropping.

Stile says just loud enough for Peter to hear, “Happy Thanksgiving, Peter” as he falls asleep listening to the pacifying voices of a father and son catching up over lost time.

\--             

Stiles sneaks quietly down to the kitchen in the early morning light to rumble around in the fridge. The food is sparse which makes Stiles mission impossibly hard, but he is determined. He wants to show Will how much he appreciates everything Will has done for him, so he labors on into the morning—breaking the eggs, chopping up vegetables, mixing in them together and frying them in the pan.

He is putting the omelet on a plate and pouring cups of coffee when Will enters the kitchen. “Morning.” Stiles says hoarsely, and if it surprises Will that Stiles is talking to him he doesn’t mention it.

“What’s all this for?” Will asks, eying it suspiciously, but eating it anyway.

 “I wanted to?” Stiles says sarcastically, adding, “I thought maybe we could go fishing today?”

Will speaks through a mouth full of food, “I know the perfect place.”

              They dress in wading shorts, and Will makes sure Stiles is wearing at least wearing three sweaters and jacket to battle the chill of the late autumn wind. He didn't want to make another trip to the hospital—to many people there for it to be comfortable.

 

The place is beautiful, a tiny oasis hidden in the browning forestry behind Will’s house. Trees towering like giants over them, reflecting in the crystalline surface of the pond. Fish scales simmering in the sunlight as they wiggling effortlessly through the water, and Stiles finds he wants to join them—to feel nothing but water coursing freely over this body.

They are setting side-by-side on a old wooden dock, feet dangling into the pond, casting their lines through the air as the regard the changing of the tree leaves.

“I can find somewhere else to stay.” Stiles says frivolously in the silence, “if you don't want me to stay,” watching Will’s lure bobbing up and down in the rippling water.

“No. I would like it if you stayed.” Will says looking contemplatively out over the water.  Stiles knocks their legs together. Splashing the water around their feet and up their shorts, saying “Happy Thanksgiving, Will.”

Will looks to Stiles and smiles for the first time since he found him abandoned on the side of the road. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title for this is taken from Bastille's song 'Pompeii.'  
> If you find any mistakes or things are not connecting in the story well please let me know. :) I know the whole story line so everything will make sense to me. But you guys are only getting tid pits of information in chronological order so if I miss explaining something that I won't explain later, drop a comment. I won't bite, promise. :)


	3. I Hear You Calling in the Dead of Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So instead of flash backing in this chapter Stiles is having a dream sequence. I am not entirely sure how I feel about this chapter, but I think it needed to happen for other things to happen. There is some foreshadowing and steteresquey interactions going on so yay! :) Building blocks!

Peter rouses from his sleep when he hears the pitter-patter of rain hitting the window. The Sheriff and Stiles have fallen asleep sitting up right on the couch. Heads tilted at painful angles from where they had fallen during the night to rest on their chests. Arms hanging like dead weight from their bodies with the babies asleep in their laps. Eyes moving behind closed eye lids as they dream.

Peter could see how they were related in the way their mouths hung open laxly, and drool dribbled out to soak through their shirts as they slept. Through the way their Adams Apple’s bobbled as they snored loudly and the way they breathed with their stomachs—rising and falling—instead of their chest. How they held an air of serenity and innocence around them as they dreamed, and it looked like nothing and no one could touch them.

It saddens Peter to wake them—he can already smell the aches already coming off of their cramped muscles in their bodies—because the Sheriff never looks this peaceful anymore. Not since Stiles left—or was taken, or whatever had happened to him. And Peter got the feeling Stiles doesn’t sleep like this often by how his skin bunched together in bags under his eyes.

He shakes them and they wake. They walk sleepily up the stairs and to their respective rooms. John takes the babies with him and Peter hears Stiles closing the door to his—or should he say Stiles’—new room.

Peter tries to sleep, but he can still smell the terror lingering in the room—even over the burn of artificial cinnamon scorching his nose. He can hear Stiles tossing and turning in the room next to him, can hear the whimpers and sobs racking his body, his heartbeat quickening in fear, and it drives him insane. No one could sleep with that racket.

He enters his—Stiles—room, pulling a chair up beside the bed. He cards his fingers through the boy’s hair to quiet the boy’s whimpering. Smiles when Stiles’ movements still at Peter’s touches, and he catches glimpses brown behind fluttering eyelids.

\--

Stiles treads the shoreline alone in the barrenness of nightfall. A half empty bottle of whiskey in his hand—drowning his sorrows in the alcohol much like he wants to drown his sorrows in the calmness of the water: his head slipping further and further under the water until he can’t move, can’t breath, can't think: until his world is flipping upside down and he is tumbling into the abysmal darkness.

He takes a deep breath in. Builds his courage. Steadies his hand as he unzips his jeans and kicks them off. Steps shakily into the sand as he tugs his boxers down and steps out of them. Swallows the remaining spirit in his bottle anxiously as he wades into the chilly and immobilizing water. Stands drunkenly, dropping the empty bottle in the depths of the ocean. Staring into the shallowness of what is to become his final resting place, or as final as one can get with the oncoming tide.

All he needs is one more step and he will be gone from this earth: vanishing under the murky waters, all his well-kept secrets wash away in the rolling waves and surging currents, descending to the softness of the ocean’s floor where only himself and the fishes would know the darkness that eats at his soul, erasing all of the damage that the stupidity of his actions would leave on, and alleviating him of the voices that call out to him in the dead of night. All he needs is one more step and as he lifts his foot he knows he is ready to meet Death—that he would welcome Death with open arms.

And then he is sinking, falling into the water, allowing the water to flood his nose and ears until he can’t breath, until he can’t hear anything but the water pressing against his eyes, until it feels like they are going to burst, until he wants to scream, until he wants to force his way to the top. But, he doesn’t. He fights the urge as he lets himself fall to the ocean floor.

And then he shuts his eyes, memories playing behind his closed eyes. Flashing like broken light bulbs as the nerve endings in his head burn out: sees his mom and dad building a blanket fort around him, sees his mom’s face smiling brightly as she dances with him on standing on her toes, sees himself tucking into his dad’s arms as they hug goodbye before he goes to work, watches his arms flailing in excitement as his mom puts him in the car, watches his mom filling his sand bucket and he giggles patting and compacting the sand in. Watches her blood sipping into the sand. Strong arms seizing her as she screams, “Run, Stiles, Run!” So he does, and he watches his eight year-old-self run into the safety of the forest. Watches as the trees surrounding him fade into darkness around him, and hears himself lying to his dad about a car crash.

And then there are soft breasts pressing against his back, and dainty pale hands wrapping around his hips—pulling him out of the ocean. Pullling him away from seeing his dad’s face fall as they explain his wife was dead.

And when he comes too—coughing water out of his lungs—he is staring into concerned eyes.

“What the hell, Stiles?” She yells furiously before pulling him into hug, and all Stiles can think about is how her blue eyes remind him of Peter’s. He brushes her long brown hair away from her neck, and traces the damaged scar tissue that remains there—a testament to her father’s fucked up obsession.

And then, they are kissing and falling onto the sand and Stiles tastes blood rolling over his tongue until it is filling his mouth. He spits it out, smearing it on his forearm, wiping it from his mouth and chin, trying to rid himself of the awful taste. He sees her grabbing for him, crying for him to help her, and then she is tumbling to the ground. Crumbling into sand before his very eyes.

And then, he is staring into those cold callous eyes while their owner beams with bloodied lips. He has her on the ground, elbows deep in her blood, bloody scalpels and knives catching the light of the sun shining in. He tilts his head, and reaches a bloodied hand out to Stiles. Beckoning him forwards to hand him her heart. Horns protruding from his head and eyes reflecting the terror on Stiles’ face.

 And then he is calling out, “Stiles,” calmly in the dead of the night.

 --

“Stiles,” Peter urges as Stiles gasps for air. Choking in his haste to fill his lungs with oxygen. Flailing in his attempt regain his breathing. It looks like he is drowning, and Peter has no earthly idea of what to do.

“Stiles? Hey. Wake up.” Peter urges shaking Stiles shoulder.

“Peter?” Stiles opens his eyes feverishly before pushing Peter’s hands away, and sitting up abruptly. Moving the blankets down his legs and standing up frantically looking around, for what Peter has no idea.

“What is it?” Stiles ignores Peter’s question and looks wildly for whatever he is looking for on the floor. Opening his suitcase and tosses his garments on the floor. Searching frantically through his clothes until he makes a ‘aha’ noise and holds up his socks.  Throwing them and his shoes on hastily after he finds them.  

“Where are you going?” Peter starts worrying as Stiles grabs his jacket and practically runs for the open door.

 Stiles looks to Peter before responding exasperatedly, “I am going to find Abigail.” Peter hasn’t the slightest idea of who this Abigail is, or was, or why Stiles is going to find her in the middle of the night. He just knows that letting Stiles leave in this frenzied state is a not-so-good idea so he stands up from his position in the chair, and crosses the room. Closing the door before Stiles can reach it.  

Stiles glares at the door and turns his piercing glare to Peter. They stay like that—Stiles eyeing Peter heatedly while Peter keeps his hand on the doorknob—for a few minutes. He notices the way Stiles’ muscles tremor in distress and agitation, heartbeat quickening at alarming rates.

They stand there, staring, until Stiles gestures wildly for Peter to open the door with crazed eyes, exclaiming, “he’s going to kill her!” Slamming his fist against his open palm in dramatic emphasis. 

“Who is killing whom?” Peter questions trying to figure what the hell is going on.

“It doesn’t matter,” and those are tears threatening to spill out of Stiles’ eyes. But, they don’t as Stiles balls his fist and stands defiantly. He states, “I have to find her.”

Hears Stiles heartbeat accelerating at an alarming rate. He repeats it like a mantra as he wraps himself around Peter.

“Shhh,” Peter whisperers soothingly against Stiles’ neck, “it was just a dream, Stiles. That’s all it was. Everything is okay now. It’s going to be okay. Just breath with me, okay? In and out. Just like that. Good.”  He praises as he listens to Stiles breath and heart slow to it’s normal pace. He smells the sleepiness that overcomes Stiles’ brain. 

“Can we still look for her?” Stiles asks anxiously as he nuzzles sleepily into Peter’s chest.

“Of course.” Peter breathes into his ear, rubbing soothing patterns through the expensive pajamas that clothe Stiles’ back. 

“Okay, Will, just let me put my shoes on first.” Stiles says as he presses closer into Peter’s arms, his eyes closing, and his heart rate slowing as he drifts into slumber.

Peter’s eyes widen in confusion, looking down at Stiles’ shoes that lace around his feet.

\--

“You still like him, don’t you?” Her voice calls to him in the dead of night, strong and steady and real. But, this is not the voice of the girl he remembers. _Her_ voice was never so adoring or joyous or whimsical. It was only ever broken and fragile and so full of paranoia that Stiles wondered how they even functioned in a stable relationship together at all.  

Stiles hums absentmindedly as he gazes at the stag horns plastered to the wall. Daunting moonlight filters in through the solitary window at the end of the room. Illuminating the whiteness of the hundreds of prized antlers strung up on the four walls of the room. Casting unnerving shadows throughout the room—like roots reaching out across soil, searching for a source of live, of love, of water or blood. God, thinking about roots reaching for anything reminds him of mushroom gardens hidden in the Virginia wilderness—and ew, can he just not.

He feels her hand clasping tightly around his, and she pulls him close to her as she rest her head on Stiles’ shoulder. It doesn’t feel like her hand though. It’s rough and calloused and big. Not soft and smooth or small and it scares him.

“Why don’t you tell him?” She muses. “I know for a fact you liked him more than me—even when we were together.”

“That’s not true.” Stiles huffs.

She frowns now, looking up to Stiles. “But, it is.”

Stiles tilts his head to place a delicate kiss to her forehead, but her shape is shifting, her body contorting, her visage distorting as her voice deepens into an inhuman timbre, and her bright blue eyes turn bright red and fangs emerging from her mouth. Hair growing in on her chin, eyes sinking in, cheekbones protruding, as her shiloutte elongats into a familiar masculine figure. And nothing can stop the full-blown terror from showing on his face when realizes who he is now standing before him.

“Hello, Stiles.” He says waving his acknowledgement, red eyes glinting hysterically in the light. 

“Hey, Peter.” Stiles says popping the p nervously, body preparing to flee, but he doesn’t see the attack coming. All he sees is whorl of moving fabric and hands rushing and a body shifting—morphing into an inhumane shape in the darkness of the night.   

Stiles doesn’t feel the pain but he is higher off the ground then he remembers being. He looks down and there are horns piercing through his skin. He tries to feel them, but he can’t move—Peter’s arms press him further into the racks. He is trapped and dying on the remains of a dead animal—blood dirtying the clean antlers—dripping red liquid all over the spotless floor. He hears the Peter’s joyous laughs echoing of the walls. 

And when he looks up again he meets callous black eyes, and there is nothing there—no remorse, or guilty, or pain, nothing but vacant eyes. Minuet twitches of his lips as he pulls them up into a tight smile—all too pleased by the wonderful work of ‘art’ he had created.

The soft light plays with shadows on his face. His face looks like a skeleton in the dim light, like he has no eyes at all, and Stiles remembers, now, why he called him an angel of death the first time he laid eyes on him.

And hears the man calling his name in the quiet of the night.

 

Stiles jolts awake. Peter is saying his name quietly in his sleep. They have curled up together on the floor.  Shaking he disentangles himself from Peter, and leaves the room. Peeks in on his dad and children before heading down stairs. He makes himself cozy on the couch in the living room, but doesn’t sleep for the rest of the night. 

And for the first time in a long time he finds himself wishing he could talk to the man who haunts him in his dreams. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title chapter is taken from "Overjoyed" by Bastille.  
> I am going to try to update sooner than I did this time 'round, but school is the devil so we will see how it goes. :(


	4. The Waves They Drag You Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! This chapter did not want to get written, but here it is. Also I should mention that after this chapter lays the land of major Hannibal spoilers. I repeat after this chapter there be Hannibal spoilers. I am sorry I didn't tag that sooner.

 

“Is that what you are wearing to the beach?” Peter hears the Sheriff muffled voice asking Stiles through the floor he wakes on. Shirt all rumpled from where Stiles had clung to him through the night, and grows cold on alone on the freezing ground without a warm body pressed against him. He lies there for a few moments touching the dying warmth Stiles’ body had left when he had gone. Sighing, he gets up, gets dressed, and heads down stairs.

He agrees Stiles is not wearing anything anywhere near proper beach attire. He is dressed in a simple grey suit. The pant legs haven been freshly pressed this morning. The sleeves of his dress shirt bunch up when Stiles moves to put grapes, cherries, and delicious desserts in little tuber ware boxes. A golden vest stood out against the whiteness of his shirt, and he often fingered the edge when it rid up his stomach. There is two jackets, a grey dress jacket and golden felt one, laying next to the picnic basket Stiles places the tuber ware in.

“No.” Stiles says scandalized, “I am also going to wear this jacket.” Grabbing his jacket as he heads for the door with a picnic basket in his hands.

The boy holds the door open for everyone as he motions them through the door. Peter listens to the Sheriff and Stiles banter effortlessly back and forth as they get in the Jeep. The babies’ start wailing in the back as the gears grind when Stiles puts it in reverse. The Sheriff shushes them with a bottle and they grow plaint in his arms. He catches the small smile that graces Stiles’ face as the boy eyes them in the rearview mirror.

Stiles switches on the radio and turns the music up when a song he is fond of plays through the speakers. He informs them it is by a band he and Scott used to listen to all the time. He sings so obnoxiously loud with the wind blowing his hair, tousling in the sunlight, that he looked like a normal carefree teenager. Peter knew different though and it broke his heart to see the way Stiles put up this front for everyone.

When they get to the beach everyone is already there. Scott and Isaac are just getting towels out of their cars. Allison and Lydia are lounging in the sand. Mrs. McCall and Danny are yelling at Ethan and Aiden to stop roughhousing. Derek, Cora, and Jennifer are frolicking along the shoreline in their swimming suits. The humans where complaining about the cool air freezing their skin while the supernatural beings ran around without their shirts on like it was the middle of July.

They park near the others cars in the near empty parking lot. Stiles grabs the babies after they park, tells Peter to carry the picnic basket, and the Sheriff is assigned blanket duty because Stiles is afraid he will throw his back out. Which is ridiculous—really it is just a picnic basket, but Stiles is very insistent.

They lay the blanket down and Stiles takes out the food. Carefully crafting the desserts and fruits into beautiful masterpieces on the paper plates he had brought with them. He did so with practiced ease, and it left Peter wondering how many nights Stiles had spent pouring over a kitchen counter—or more specifically with _whom_ he had spent nights pouring over a kitchen counter.

\--

He is not sure why the F.B.I let him stay with Will. Why they weren’t contacting Stiles dad to come and get him—though he thanked God every day they hadn’t.  He thinks it is because of his dad’s drinking record. Thinks they may think his dad was beating him back then, and he never tries to correct them because he isn’t ready to face his dad yet—isn’t ready to face the truth he had been running from for years.

They bring him in for questioning often. They ask him about the human flesh they found in between his teeth. They ask him about the drugs that were in his system, and the liaison’s scaring his body. They ask him if he can describe the house his was in, or if he had been moved to new locations in the year and three months he had been held hostage. Ask if he can draw them a sketch of his captors.

He never does draw them a picture, or answer them for that matter. It doesn’t matter that men were feeding Stiles people on a daily basis, or that they were beating until he couldn’t walk straight for days. It doesn’t matter where they were hiding him because they were dead, and they were never going to touch Stiles again. And, no matter how hard Jack Crawford tried he to threaten him with obstruction to justice or reason him into believing he would be saving the next victims Stiles never said a word. Because Stiles knew there would never be a ‘next victim.’

After they were done with questioning for the day Will would pick him up. He and Will had become quiet the pair in the short time there had lived together. Both of them broken: neither of them wanting to be alone. Stiles made them breakfast in the morning; they would eat lunch together at Will’s school; drive to the lake to fish when they were bored; washed the dogs in a kiddy pool in front bed; slept in the same bed because neither of them wanted to sleep on the couch. From a distant it would seem as if they were the best of friends when in reality they hardly talked at all.

As Stiles strips he finds himself remember the look on Will’s face when he found him walking all those weeks ago. Feels sad that Will will find him this wearing that same look on his face. He pushes those feelings away, though, and plunges into the icy cold water of the bathtub. Pushes them away as water licks at the beads of sweat forming on his neck. Pushes them away as all the fear and guilt and pain is floating away and he is surrendering his consciousness to the darkness calling his name.

\--

Peter is mesmerized by a little bead of sweat that is currently tracing a path down the back of Stiles pale neck. He observes it as slowly taunts, slides against the. Before he can even think about it he is leaning in, and running his tongue up the boy’s neck. The taste of hopelessness and despair dance across his palate and he retraces his tongue so fast that it was hardly even there in the first place.

He hears Stiles gasp, arms flailing as he exclaims, “Peter,” hands wiping the last of the saliva’s residue from his body. “What the hell, man?”

“You had something, there.” Peter says motioning to Stiles neck.

“You look hot.” Peter says to Stiles passively.

Stiles flounders, his grapes landing gently in the sand, and blushes a beautiful pink. Everyone chokes on their food a little at Peter words. John stares at him questioningly while Melissa wears a knowing smile. Jackson is glaring daggers at him. He has to physically stop his eyes from rolling his pack’s tactlessness.  

“I am sorry?”

“You’re sweating.” And everyone ‘oooh’s collectively, and Peter really has to remind himself not to roll his eyes in exasperation.  “Perhaps you should remove some of those clothes. It will help with the heat.” Peter advises.

“You probably just want to see me naked.” Stile says and Peter can’t tell if that is flirtation or contempt in his tone.

“Yes, probably.” He rakes his eyes up Stiles body not really of what he is saying, or the implications they bring.

Scott jokingly recommends they get a room, and everyone laughs. Well everyone except for Stiles and Jackson.  

\--

They recommend Stiles a therapist a week after he first tries to kill himself in Will’s bathtub—someone to ‘heal’ his ‘tortured soul,’ or whatever. He doesn’t think any amount of therapy can heal what is he has left of his broken soul, but he shows up thirty minutes early, anyway.

The waiting room looks like something right out of a late 1950’s horror movie. The kind of movie where a fancy millionaire invites a bunch of unsuspecting people out to his haunted house and murders them in the under the pretense of false friendliness and bloodied money.

There is something too prefect about the place, Stiles thinks. Something a little off about the way the décor matched the paint job just a little too perfectly. It had that 50’s feel perfectly hidden madness like insanity was just beneath the carefully placed furniture. Like there could

He is sure the light blue walls are meant to, in some manipulative psychological way, calm the patients that pass through them. However, he is alone in a room where the brown chairs match the brown of the trim of that run the length of the ceiling and the floor, and the flawlessness of the room is doing nothing to calm his restlessness. There is a desk where a sectary once sat. It has long been abandoned it seems.

He twiddles his thumbs impatiently in the eerily lit room. He flinches when he hears the horrifying sobs calling to him through the alabaster door. Twitches when the anxiety radiating throughout his body becomes too much for his tiny, beaten, and broken body to bear. Jumps out of his skin when the door opens and the man stands ominously in the doorway.

 “You,” Stiles says. His eyes enlarging in distress as he catches the man’s enquiring eyes. He remembers those hands—resting on the doorknob of the office door—drenched in blood as their owner pulled dead bodies out of the trunk of his car. Blood soaking in through his expensive threads of his well-tailored suit.

“Me?” The man sounding puzzled while he stands in the open doorway.

“You?” Stiles asks in disbelief and shock because there is no way this is his life. Of course, he thinks, it is just his luck to be stuck in a building with the man how saved and abandoned him on the side of the road to die.

Sighing, he says, “yes, I am Dr. Lecter. Please come in.” as he waves him.

Stiles would be lying if he tells you he didn't feel like he was walking into a graveyard as he crosses the threshold. Like he doesn’t feel the ghost of countless victims lingering in the room. Like he doesn’t feel he is about to meet his untimely death like the countless others who have passed before him. Like he didn’t stand tensely waiting for the sharp pain of a knife cutting into his skin.

 “I apologize for keeping you waiting, Mr. Stilinski. I hope you were not waiting to long. My last session lasted longer than expected. ” The man voices rings apologetically through the vastness of the room.  

“Please have a seat.” The Doctor says as he unbuttons his jacket to sit in one of the blue leather chairs. He has a unsharpened pencil in his hand that he begins sharpening in his hand as Stiles takes a seat in the chair directly across from the Doctor. They stare at each other for away and Stiles fidgets restlessly in his chair. He feels the man’s cool inquisitive gaze assessing him. Unraveling the darkest secrets of his mind in just one glance.

 “Are you going to kill me?” Stiles enquires uneasily as he looks at the vast stillness of the room. Attentive to the sounds of metal slicing into wood, scraping wood chips onto the floor, and the squeal of metal grating against granite that fills the silences in the room. It was meant as a threat, a promise of death, Stiles was sure of it.

 “Why would I kill you Mr. Stilinski?” He says sounding mildly amused.

“I don’t know.” Stiles says more to himself than to the doctor he has been recommended. He wants to bring up the fact that he had seen the man carrying dead bodies into a forest, but thinks better of it. It might be the only to stay alive—by just pretending it never happened. Stiles had learned that the hard way.

After a short silence Stiles says, “so what do we talk about?”

“Whatever you want to talk about. This is your hour Stiles. Use it as you see fit.” The man says finally laying down the pencil to focus all his attention directly at his new patient.

Stiles thinks for a moment, “I want to talk about my mother,” he hesitates, “I just don’t know where to start.”

 “Why don’t we start with her death?”

“She died in a car accident.” And even to Stiles it sounds rehearsed like a thought that had been uttered and repeated so many times that it lost all it’s meaning.   

“Do not lie to me, Stiles.” The man voice lilts over his word, yet there is a hardness that is there, reprimanding in its tone, telling Stiles not to do it again.   

 “How did you know?”

“I read your files Stiles. Those abrasions on your arms and legs where not from a car accident, where they?” Tilting his head, laying his legs over one another in nonchalance, and resting his hands in his lap in an attempt to convince Stiles’ of his lameness. To Stiles all it shows is the doctor’s impeccable amount of self-control, and he thinks maybe it is a power play.

Stiles can only shake his head as he remembers the horrible events that had lead up to that pivotal moment.

“An uneducated person, or someone feeling rushed, may not have seen it. May not have noticed that the glass from the car couldn’t have scared your skin quite like the way tree branches could. They were caused by tree branches, correct?”

Stiles stays quiet, choosing to stay quiet because he didn’t quite trust this guy.

“Stiles, I am here to help you. I can only do that if you trust me. Can you trust me, Stiles?” He asks reaching out his hand for Stiles to take.

Stiles nods, shakily reaching for the man’s hand, grasping it tightly as he wraps his slender fingers around the man’s leathery ones. He feels like he has accepted the devil’s hand. Like he had sold his soul to Satan him self, and yet he couldn’t stop the events of that night from fumbling off his lips.

\--

“Do you want to do him?”

“Excuse me?” Peter answers taken aback by the bluntness of Jackson’s question.

The pack is far enough away they wouldn’t hear them talking: Scott and Derek were tumbling and jumping around like two idiots in the water, Allison and Isaac were splashing around in the waves smiling shyly at each other and laughing, the Sheriff and Ms. McCall walking off far in the distant searching for sea shells—and Stiles, poor Stiles, sits dirtying his freshly pressed dress pants while staring bleakly into the rolling ocean waters. So he know he can answer yes without a whole lot of explaining and horrified gasps. That is if he wants too.

“Do you want to do him?” Jackson repeats his question, harder this time. His gaze never leaving the boy staring off into a world only he could see. His bare feet curling into the sand, clenching and unclenching as they overturned white sand: searching for purchase, for anything to hold on, for something solid to latch on to, but only finding unstable and shifting earth.

Jackson finally tears his gaze away, looking to Peter. He looks like he is ready to brawl—Peter has no earthly idea what has got him so riled up.

“Why would I ever want to do that?” Peter replies coolly.

“Cut the shit, Hale. He told me what you two did.” Jackson bites out, and Peter rolled his eyes at Jackson’s lack of tactic before Jackson is continues with gusto, “Do you like him?”

“I have no idea what your talk—”

“Do you love him?” Jackson cuts him off sharply. The silence that follows seems to be a good enough answer for Jackson because he falls silent and watches Peter watch Stiles.

\--

“And this man, Peter, he found you?” The doctor says leaning forward, folding his fingers in a steeple, resting his chin on them as he

“Yes, on the side of the road.” Stiles repeats for the tenth time.

“He assumed you were in a car wreck?”

“All the evidence pointed to a car wreck, so yeah I guess he did.”

“You used his misunderstanding to your advantage.”

“Yeah.”

“And you have been telling this lie ever since?”

“Yeah.”

“That must have been very hard on you.”

Stiles doesn’t want to talk about this anymore and he is about to ask if there time is up when the Doctor asks, “Did you develop feelings for this man?”

And Stiles really doesn’t want to talk about this now. He cannot explain the complexities of his form life without sounding like a complete lunatic so he asks, “Can we be done now?” He hears the tiredness in his voice and hopes it will persuade the doctor to let him go home.

“Yes, we can be done now.”

They schedule an appointment for the next Thursday at six o’clock so as to accommodate Will teaching schedules. Before he goes Dr. Lecter asks him whom he is staying with. Stiles tells him of Will and the little farm house in Wolf Trap. He says his goodbyes but doesn’t see the hints of a smile as he heads out the door.

\--  

“Hold my jacket.” Stiles says throwing his jacket vehemently into Jackson’s arms as he turns for the scantily clad men playing volleyball a few yards away from them.

“Go kick their asses, baby. I got yo’ jacket.” Jackson calls after him.

Stiles puffs out laughs and flips Jackson off without even turning around, facing his back towards the as he approaches the volleyball players.

“If you hurt him,” Jackson says eyebrows knitting together in that menacing way they tend to do when Jackson is feeling particularly I-art-holier-than-thou, “I will not hesitate to douse your whole body in gasoline and lighter fluid and light the match so fucking close to your face you won’t even see it coming. All you will see is the flames engulfing your puny, worthless, pathetic body. Do you understand me?”

Somehow, through the course of his little tirade, Jackson had gripped Peter by the collar and pulling Peter’s face closer to his. He is so close now Peter can feel the little puffs of harsh air brushing against his lips. Can feel Jackson’s spit fling on to his chin as he furiously pronunciates each syllable rolling rapidly of his tongue. Eyes wide and unwavering as they glare threateningly into Peter’s.

Peter would find it endearing and amusing if it were any other situation. He wouldn’t let it get to him because nothing really scares him anymore—not since the fire, had anything scared him anymore—but there is something in the way Jackson is looking at him. Something in the way his heart doesn’t miss a beat over the words engulfing your bodies in flames, that has him terrified. Something in the way he smells like an Alpha to a Beta, and Peter finds him nodding his head submissively. 

And for the first time since the fire Peter is scared for his life.  
 --

“How’d it go?” Will asks with his mouth full of Vietnamese food.

Stiles decides not to answer.

“Not good, huh?”

Stiles replies, “I think I am going to head out for awhile.”

Will seems to understand Stiles needs to be alone right now, and tells him to be careful when driving. Stiles nods and grabs the keys from where Will laid them on the counter after returning home with food.

He drives for hours not really knowing where he is going. Just letting his mind take him down the back roads and deserted highways while he tries to push away the haunting guilt that had followed him from Dr. Lecter’s office. Before he knows it he ends up at a beach. It is not exactly where he wants to be right now but he gets out anyway.

He sees a girl on the farthest side of the ocean. He approaches her and asks if it is okay to sit next to her. She nods and continues to watch the oncoming tide. Her eyes remind him of Peter’s and Stiles can tell she is smart. He can also tell she is hiding something, something terrible, but he doesn’t press her about it.

Eventually she gets up and invites him to play volleyball with her. He says sure and soon enough they are spiking the ball back and forth of the net. He isn’t very good at it but he provides a challenge. That is until an unknown fury is unleashed inside of her and she plays with such intensity Stiles is afraid for her hand. He thinks it must have something to do with whatever she is hiding and how it is affecting her mental stability. Stiles loses shortly after that.

Afterwards she smiles and reaches out her hand while saying, “My name is Abigail Hobbs.”

Stiles likes the airiness in her voice and the way her smile touches her eyes. He extends his hand shaking hers and he says, “I’m Stiles.”

\--

Everyone has gathered around to watch Stiles pump the ball over the net in his suit. He is quiet amazing to watch. He throws himself into the game, sliding, falling, and hitting in the sand. He plays with such ferocity it is actually quiet terrifying, and it shows on the opposites team member’s faces when he spikes the ball over.

When one of the men get a little too close to Stiles, or accidentally run their hands up Stiles sides, Peter lets out a growl. Jackson shots him a look and says, “Holy shit. Don’t tell me your mates.” The kanima-turned-wolf says just loud enough where Peter can hear him. He knows it is not a question it is a statement, and Peter doesn’t answer because there is no way he can lie or manipulate his way out this one.   

Jackson says shit under his breath right as Stiles furiously pumps the ball over for a win. The men he is playing with tackle him to the ground. There are skin and hands pressing all over Stiles’ know ruined suit. It angers Peter and Jackson steps between him and the guys rubbing all over Stiles.

Finally they let Stiles go and he walks up to them. He doesn’t look happy. He just looks mad. Jackson is there in a heart beat eyeing him suspiciously. Stiles eyes him back and they stand there eyeing each other until Stiles practically falls into Jackson’s arms. “How could I think this was a good idea?”

“I know honey, just look at your suit.” Jackson chastises, and actually tuts at Stiles. Peter gets the feeling that Stiles was talking so much more than his suit but he lightens up at Jackson’s joke.

“I know. What would he think if he saw me know?” Stiles asks, laughing sadly.

“He is probably pacing furiously in his cell right now.” Jackson says as he picks up the babies and hands them to Stiles. They coo and reach for him as they are passed and Stiles makes kissy faces at them.

Everyone starts gather their things to return home for the night. Breaking off into groups they will return home with. He expects Stiles, the Sheriff, and himself to head of together but Jackson has glued himself to Stiles side and it looks like he has any intention of leaving it.

“Please tell me your not wearing _the suit_ to the airport tomorrow?” Jackson pleads as everyone walks to the cars.

“Oh you bet your ass, I am wearing _the suit_. Serves you right for being a dick to me all the time.” Stiles says sticking out his tongue and jostling the babies in his arms.

“You wouldn’t wear it if Will was here.” Jackson says sourly.

“You know Will would be in a matching sweater, and I would coerce him into walking around with, ‘I <3 Whittemore 5eva,’ all over it.”

Jackson is slaps his face with a groan as he follows Stiles to his car, and the Sheriff pulls Peter over to Melissa’s car. He hears Stiles tell everyone good night as he opens the car door. Maneuvering everything into the back, and Jackson takes his suitcase out of Lydia’s trunk and puts it in the Jeep. He guesses they are having a sleep over without anyone else. He sees that the Pack had picked up on it to. He can smell the hurt and jealous rolling off  Scott, Isaac, and Derek at being left out of the male bonding time that was sure to go down in Jackson’s hotel room.

“We are so watching the Notebook tonight.” Stiles quips as he put the twins in their car seats. Okay, so maybe not ‘male bonding’ time but everyone was just upset that Stiles was so close to Jackson now.

“Oh my God. I am not watching that stupid movie.” Jackson groans as the get in the Jeep, and hears Stiles muffled voice say, “You know you love it.”

And, just like that they are gone.

\--

Stiles is drowning, being dragged down by the waves. Someone is pushing him his head just beneath the surface. Strong arms holding him under as he legs and arms thrash about the ocean’s surface. Trying to scramble his way out but the men keep pressing him down. Hears them laughing at his feeble attempts. Suddenly their hands are gone and the waves they drag him down until he is sprawling downwards in the current of the tide pulling back out to sea.

 

“What the hell, Stilinski!” Stiles wakes to the sound of someone shouting his name. The voice is familiar, and God, he hadn’t heard that voice in almost a year. He had thought he wouldn’t be hearing this particular voice, like, ever again. Especially with it showing concern for Stiles will being.

He pulls out of his daze. Standing just on the edge of the water. Where the shore and the sea meet in violent crashes and sea foam. He is cold and for some reason his clothes are lain out across the sand a few feet away. His feet sinking into the grains of sand the water had turned into a mushy pile of mud. He stands there for a few minutes assessing his surroundings, and doesn’t see the girl he was looking for.

He turns to face Jackson. Completely forgetting his hanging bare for all of the world to see. Jackson comes towards him, and Stiles flinches away from him.

“Hey, it’s okay.” Jackson says as he takes off his jacket and wraps it around Stiles’ shaking frame. “I won’t hurt you.”

Jackson doesn’t ask about the scars as he leads Stiles to his car. Or what he is doing alone on the beach completely naked in the middle of the night. He just acts like his normal self, which is to be a totally douche- bag while secretly caring about everyone else. And Stiles likes the sense of normalcy it brings him so he gets in Jackson’s car and lets the guy drive him home.

They have been driving for a while in silence. It is something Stiles has grown used to since he moved in with Will, but this silence isn’t what he is used to. It is awkward and tense and makes Stiles want to crawl out of his skin. He doesn’t know who to break the ice but finally when the silence becomes to much he blurts out,  “I had sex with Peter.”

Jackson loses control of the steering wheel for a second before straighten it out. He looks at Stiles and Stiles sees bewilderment in Jackson’s eyes. Waiting expectantly for Stiles to explain, but Stiles brain is already jumping to something else. The reason he had shown up to the beach in the first place.

“I had sex with a girl who often sat by me at the beach. Her name was Abigail. She looked like a girly version of Peter. Same hair color, same eye color, same pale skin just a few little differences here and there. And maybe that is why I was attracted to her. Maybe that is why I wanted her so badly, because she reminded me of Peter so badly. She hasn’t contacted me sense.” He finishes unhappily looking out the window.

He turns to consider Jackson in the darkness of the car. He has one hand on the steering wheel and the other covering his mouth. He eyes are focused on the road. Trying hard not to make eye contact until he had processed the information floating around in his head. When Stiles doesn’t receive any response other than Jackson’s anxious stare, he says, “Jackson, I need a lawyer.”


	5. Inside It's Nice And Warm

Everyone is crowding into the two small tables at the back of the diner.  Everyone is already splitting into their little clichés. Scott, Allison, Isaac and Cora are at one end. Ethan, Danny, Aiden and Lydia are at the other end. Peter, Derek, and Jennifer are in the middle. Both seats next to him remain unoccupied, one for Jackson and one for Stiles.

The Pack meets here, at the small diner on the edge of town, every Saturday morning. It was the only remaining Pack Bonding ‘exercise’ that had survived a Kanima, the Alphapacolypse, a kappa, and all the other evils that threatened to tear their little group of misfit toys apart.

Everyone had already started chatting, making kissy faces at each other and throwing the little papers from their straws at each other. Well everyone except for Lydia. Who keeps checking her phone every twenty seconds to see if Jackson had texted her of his whereabouts, presumably.

Peter converses with Derek about some pack wars on the outskirt of the Beacon Hills territory. Scott joins in and they begin planning interventions, discussing tactics, and planning excursions to meet with the Alpha of the Packs. Peter offers be the emissary but they tell him no. That it is a horrible idea.

“Do you not trust me?”

“Oh my God, Peter. How many times do we have to tell you? No one trusts you!” Derek jokes while Jennifer tells him to stop.

Peter rolls his eyes and shrugs the joke off. It hurts Peter when they joke about hating Peter or not trusting him. He thinks he has done enough to gain their appreciation and trust over the past few years. Sure, there was that one time he manipulated everyone into almost killing each other, and the one time he almost killed Scott for his Alphahood. But, really that was just all water under the bridge by now. He had saved them all plenty of times so he deserved not to be the butt of the joke every time they got together.

He orders everyone’s coffee wrong just to be spiteful. And it gives him some satisfaction when they spit up on their first sip. It will teach them right, he thinks.

\--

“Do you trust him?” Will’s questioning tone is lost in the tings of silverware hitting plates and the chitter chatter of the little dinner they had stumbled themselves into in their haste to get out of the rain.

Contemplatively, Stiles stares at the rancid yogurt and stale bread the waitress has brought out to him. He watches, out of the corner of his eyes, as Will slathers his eggs in ketchup. The red condiment reminding him of the innocent blood soaked in the yellow carpet of some unknown room. Watches as the older man knifes at his brunt up sausage, and all he sees is fingers rolling off the rickety bedside table. Can only see the horror reflecting in fearful eyes as their fingers where placed in his mouth, and they were forced to watch as he swallowed them. He turns his head away from the scene before him, looking out at the cars to tether himself to the dull drone of the hustle and bustle of the diner.

He resists the urge to vomit by flinging his putrid yogurt at the creeper sitting in the booth in front of them. Silently observing as the white cream clots in the man’s long natty hair.

Will laughs, and Stiles smiles small as Will tells him to behave with no conviction behind his reprimanding.

Will is waiting for answer, Stiles knows. Does Stiles want to say he trusts his psychiatrist? Yes, defiantly. Does he want to tell Will about the man dragging dead bodies into the forest? Well no, he would really rather not pop the top off _that_ acidic can of soda. Especially since Will is eating. His mom used to tell him it was bad to have that much carbonation while eating, it spoils your appetite, and Will is already so thin as it is.

Will looks at him, focusing on the moles that scatter his cheek. “You don’t trust him.”

Stiles pauses his yogurt shenanigans to look at Will. Taking a moment to really appreciate the look of concern waning his face. He likes the way Will’s face scrunches up in understanding like he had spent all this time reconstructing the facts together in his head, and knows he doesn’t like what he has seen. Likes the way Will’s eyebrows knit together in concentration and push away in realization.

He knows he shouldn’t want Will to understand, shouldn’t want for Will to see what he has seen, shouldn’t want Will to know what he has done, shouldn’t want Will to know what has been done to him, but somewhere deep down he knows he does.

“I do.” Stiles chances, lamely. The reply comes a little to late for either of them to believe it is true.

Will gazes out the window of the diner. He seems lost in his own world, chin resting on his hand, eyes glazing over as he stares distantly over the town that blocks his view of mountains, lips pulling together in a tight frown. Stiles doesn't feel guilty counting the specks on Will’s glasses, watching him so open and blatantly, because he knows he will never get catch while Will is placing together the puzzle pieces inside his mind.  

Stiles is pulled from his ogling as he hears Will slowly drawl from the other side of the table.

“You don’t trust anyone, Stiles.” He says sadly.

Well, obviously, he thinks. He had spent most of his childhood running, and a whole lot of his teenage-hood locked in a tiny room where know one could see him. He might have picked up _some_ trust issues along the way, but Will didn’t need to know that. He finds himself defaulting to his old defense mechanism: sarcasm.

“Lazy psychiatry, Mr. Graham.” Stiles jokes, and smiles when he sees the upward tick of Will’s lip. Stiles likes this too. When he can get Will to smile because it was so rare for one to light his usually dismal mug.

The man pushes his food around, stabbing some eggs onto his fork, still smiling when he says, “I’m not psychoanalyzing you, Mr. Stilinski. I am just stating the facts.”

Stiles observes the man for a minute, thinking about what exactly Will had been piecing together in his mind. Trying to get in the man’s head like he is sure Will had done minutes before. 

“You’ve left out one really important fact, then.”

“Oh? What is that?”

“You.”

Will splutters on his coffee, and Stiles wants laugh, really he does, but all he can remember is water filling his nose and the inability to breath. Remembers the feel of water pressing down into his lungs, the pain blooming in his forehead and spreading through his body, and the undying need to breathe, to move, to reach, to

He ears pick up on the low timbre of Will’s bewildered voice, pulling him from the icy depths of the cold water.  

“Stiles, you're a great kid. Really, but I don’t think a relationship between the two of us will be a good idea,” Will says blushing and looking anywhere but at Stiles’ face.

“What? No. Will, I just meant I trust you, dumbass.”

“Oh.”

Stiles’ catches the little smile on Will’s face, and they sit in a comfortable silence as the world moves on around them: the waiter takes the order of a boy in the booth next to them, a baby cries, a wife hollers at her husband from the back of the diner, plates crash when the bus boy trips, a car drives by as it starts to rain outside. But inside they are nice warm. Basking in their newfound trust of each other. Or maybe Will is basking in the pleasant sensation of someone actually trusting him. Either way it is doesn’t matter, because their knees bump against each other as Stiles sips his orange juice threw a straw.

\--

Lydia is the first to address the elephant in the room—always the one to get the point. She is clearly very annoyed with Jackson for not telling anyone about Stiles, and everyone agrees. Her and Allison are also very concerned and curious as to what exactly happened to Stiles, and everyone agrees with them. They also want to know why there are two babies and no mother but no one knows how to ask Stiles without being insensitive.

They are scheming of ways to ask without being to in delicate. Peter doesn’t think they should ask Stiles anything—they should wait for Stiles to tell them—and he tells them as much. He is afraid that asking him will push whatever shred of strength Stiles had left under the careful guise of stability he had created. Everyone raised their eyebrows at, and Isaac says he didn’t know Peter was capable of feeling. He pours the whole salt container in Isaac’s coffee when he isn’t looking.

\--

He sees his mom’s ghost on the other side of the room. Will keeps walking through her, as he gets ready for bed. Stiles would laugh, because it was funny, if it weren’t for the fact that he was seeing blood pouring from every orifice of his dead mom’s body. He knows he should probably tell someone about the people he sees in his head, but he is afraid of being locked away and held against his will, again.

The older man is telling him something, but Stiles is only half aware of what Will is articulating, choosing to focus on the ceiling instead. He hears more feet in the room than there should be—four to be exact so he counts the little speaks on the roof. He tries to concentrate on the sound of Will’s breathing, and not the feel of his captor’s breath on his skin.

Peter is there on the other side of the room, just smiling. He hasn’t seen Peter He hasn’t moved since Stiles got in bed. Abigail is pacing next to his mother. She has a rounder belly than before, and she is talking but the rustle of Will pulling the bed sheets down muffles her voice. Will slides in next to him, and the apparitions that haunt him dissipate in the air. Stiles turns on his side and looks at Will.

“I saw a friend from,” Stiles pauses to take a breath, “before.”

“From California?”

“Yeah.”

“How’d it go?”

Stiles doesn’t answer because he doesn’t really know how it went. It was good to have Jackson there. Seeing Jackson had reminded him of the way things used to be, of the way he used to be. At the same time it reminded him of everything that happened to him in _that_ house. Will seems to understand he isn’t going to talk about it so he tries a new tactic.

“Why do you not want to go back?”

Stiles fiddles with the blanket. Having seen Peter again in his mind has shaking him. Maybe that is why he doesn’t want talk about why he doesn’t want to go back. He doesn’t know, but he curls up in a ball, shielding his face from Will. He knows it will seem like a sign of weakness, a sign of trauma, but he can’t bring himself to care.

Will watches him for a second, “Did your dad,” he takes a moment to compose his thoughts before asking inelegantly, “did he hurt you Stiles?”

“No, he really didn’t.”

Will nods, “Just not ready to go back?”

“Just not ready to go back.” Stiles agrees and Will bumps their thighs together under the blankets. Stiles looks up and Will is smiling goofily at him. Stiles smiles back just as goofy as Will.

“You should see your friend again. It will be good for you health.”

Stiles nods but he is thinking about how he needs to get groceries again. Dreads having to stand next to people as the wait for the bus only to have to sitting next to people waiting for the bus to stop. Fears the thought of having to stand so defenselessly near all the other people shopping in the supermarket. The anxiety builds as he thinks more about it, and he feels Will’s arm rubbing his back soothingly. He starts drifting of into sleep when he hears Will whisper, “Stiles?”

“Yeah Will?”

“Promise me you will talk to Dr. Lecter about whatever it is you’re seeing in your head.”

“Yeah, okay.” Stiles grumbles as Will slips into his own nightmares.

\--

Jackson walks in the door like he owns the place, strolling up to the table like no one has been waiting on him for the past two hours.

“Where is Stiles?” They ask in unison.

Jackson moves to sit next to Lydia, and for the first time since Peter has meet the kid, he actually looks uncomfortable, “He is going to get groceries.”

“That’s absurd. We have plenty of food at the house.” Peter states.

“Well you don’t have the groceries he wants.

“But the grocery store is in the opposite direction Stiles is driving.” Scott says eyebrows scrunching together in confusion.

“There’s more than one grocery store in the world McCall.” Jackson bites out.

Everyone looks at him expectantly and Lydia is the one to finally say, “the only other grocery store near here is thirty minutes from here.”

Peter can see Jackson physically resist to slam his head against the tabletop as he says, “Well the store Stiles is going to obviously has the groceries he wants.”

\--

People fleet around him, hurrying to get their produce, words rushing together as they talk through the receiver of a cell phone, to caught up in their one worlds to notice the scared little boy staring yearningly at the produce on the shelves. Some of them notice him when he doesn’t move out of their way when they ask him to—jostling him out of their way rather rudely. He paid them no attention, even when his scabs catch in the shifting gauze wrapped around them and reopening in painful veracity. He only cared about these vegetables.

Nothing is threatening about the array of vegetables lining the sterile metal of the grocery store. There are bright orange hues hidden gracelessly behind the green of dying leaves. They are stationary, unmoving, stable, and they provide him with a sense of escape from the fastness of the world he was craving.

He can stand here all day if he wants, and he really wants too. Because vegetables can’t hurt you like humans can. They can’t take you by the arm and force you into a car. Can’t lock you up in a room and hide you away from the rest of the world. Can’t force you to eat another person. He knows he must look utterly insane standing here in the middle of the produce aisle staring vacantly at inert produce. They just sit there and provide all the stability Stiles needs to make it through the week, and so he stands there in his own little world.

“Are you alright Stiles?”

Stiles jumps as breath traces the shell of his ear. A hand grips tightly around his arm. Bunching up in the grey material of Will’s sweater. Keeping him from running as he turns to flee.  The hand is familiar. It is one he has seen soaked in blood. One he has seen craving granite out of a pencil in a eerily perfect room. He knows those grey threads holding together the fabric that protects the owner’s body. He knows those callous eyes even before he turns around to see them. Knows the forced smile that will be placed cheerfully on that man’s face even before he sees it. Knows the man is standing patiently awaiting Stiles reply.

No, all Stiles really wants is to stare at his vegetables—yes, his vegetables. The ones that slow down movement and time around, and offer prevailing constants to his rapidly changing life. The things that help him forget about his mom’s ghost hovering just over his shoulder, that help him ignore the sickening warmth of Peter’s breath against his ear, that helps drive away regret of not hearing Abigail’s laugh eclipsed by the raging waves of the sea, and whatever else that is not him or his vegetables. He eyes the man suspiciously.

“What are you doing here, Dr. Lecter?”

He smiles before retracting his arm, “You didn’t answer my question, Mr. Stilinski.”

“You didn’t answer mine.” Stiles shots back defiantly.

They stand there for a few minutes. Stiles in one of Will’s sweaters and baggy pajama pants Jackson had let him borrow. Dr. Lecter in one of his fancy suits with a stupidly fashionable tie. He feels like they are in the middle of a Texas stand off. Each of them armed with knowledge that will destroy the other. Their guns where pointed at each other, ready for fire, and each of them where patiently waiting for the other to fire the first shot.

They aren’t breaking eye contact, and Stiles would be the damned if he will be the first one to break. He stares into those eyes mercilessly—he wanted to show he still had some fight in him left—until a smile brakes out across the older man’s face.

“It may be hard to imagine, but even I must buy groceries.”   

Stiles nods because, of course that is what his psychiatrist is doing in the crowded aisle of a grocery store. What else would he be doing here, Stiles thinks, people don’t come to the supermarket to kill people. He buries those kinds of thoughts deep in his mind to dig up later.

“Do you like cooking, Stiles?”

Stiles nods, thinking, that the doctor’s smile looks rather shifty in the fluorescent lighting of the artificial lights hanging above them.

 “I like cooking too. Perhaps we can cook together sometime? If you would like?”

Stiles nods. He’d heard from Bloom and Crawford that the doctor could be unconventional in his methods sometimes, and perhaps this is what the doctor was doing. Maybe he was being unconventional, but something about this whole situation sounds skeptical. Maybe he just wanted to make sure the kid on the verge of emotional breakdown didn't go off and become a mass murder. Whatever the reason is Stiles finds himself nodding, maybe because he needs it, needs to talk to someone who isn’t Will or Jackson, maybe because he somewhere deep down he knows he needs to talk to someone about the people how aren’t really there.

“Good. You can make this recipes for Will when we are do.” He is smiling again and pulling Stiles along as he gets the ingredients needed for his dinner.

 

Dr. Lecter’s house is nearly as impeccably and creepy as his creepy ass office. It nice though, and a lot bigger than both of the kitchens in his dad’s house and Will’s combined. It is also so dark and dreary that Stiles found himself whishing that a fissure would open itself in the floor, and hell itself would rise up to eat him whole.

Dr. Lecter is putting on a kettle. Stiles isn’t blind, he sees the mushrooms the doctor drops in the boiling water. Can smell the earth scent of mushrooms boiling.

“It will help with your depression.”

“What’s in it?”

“It is a psilocybin tea.”

“Your giving me drugs?”

“If that is how you want to see it, yes.”

Stiles nods, grabbing the expensive tea cup, and takes hesitant sip of the scolding liquid. It isn’t pleasant tasting and he keeps expect for his heart to stop beating. He guesses it shows on his face because Hannibal seems offended.

“I get the feeling you don’t trust me, Mr. Stilinski. Have we met before our first appointment?” The man enquires casually.

He doesn’t really know how to reply. His mind is becoming befuddled from the psilocybin pulsing through his system. Time is slowing down, colors intensifying, objects shifting and moving when they shouldn’t, the rain hitting the roof is almost deafening and he feels the oncoming panic rising through his chest. He wonders briefly if this is how Scott felt the first time he experienced his wolfy powers. 

Words feel heavy on his tongue as he explains slowly, “You killed my captors.”

The doctor looks surprised for a moment. His eyes are studious and unrelenting in their analytical gaze. The man grabs a knife, and Stiles is afraid now that he has said too much. That he will die here in his therapist’s kitchen, but the man brings it down on a cutting board, rhythmically chopping potatoes into little cubes.

“Often times, when our minds suffer great trauma, we make up for what has been lost by latching on to something that is not real.” The doctor is speaking matter-of-factly, egging Stiles to figure this out for himself—if there was anything to figure out.

“How could I ‘ave pictured you in my mind?” Stiles asks words as slow and thick as his thought process have grown through the haze of the fever the tea has created.

“I visited you once in the hospital under Jack’s orders. There is a possibility that you caught a glimpse of me and your guilty mind latched on to the first thing you saw: me.”

What Hannibal says triggers something in Stiles brain, and he can see it know. Watches the illusions unraveling like a piece of thread caught on a metal fence.  He was moving to fast to see it at first. Climbing over fences and trampling through peoples beautiful gardens, just to get away from it all. To absorbed in being the prey to notice his jeans where unstitching thread by thread until all that was left was his skin and the truth of what he did.

He sees his dead eyes reflecting in the stainless steel of the intruder’s most cherished knife. Feels his pulse quickening in fear, and It is in this exact moment Stiles remembers snapping, when all that was inside of him was wrath and all he could visualize was the red of his rage spilling out over the yellow carpet. No longer was he afraid all he wanted was for this man to feel what he had done. To know the sick rage he relented onto Stiles time and time again.

He must have blacked out then, or his mind must have forgotten, because the next thing he knew the man was on the ground. The cold dead of his eyes were all that were staring back.  As he moves through the house he sees them all, sprawled out on the floor. Remembers thinking he must have done this, that he must have killed them all and he drops his knife in the kitchen sink. Turns on the food grinder and watches as the metal gets stuck. Pulls it out and does it again until he is sure there is no way to get any prints of it.

He leaves it like this. When the ghastly sound of metal scraping against metal, and dead bodies littering the floor. He gets in the can and drives way. He drives until the gas ran out, and then he walked. And walked. And walked. And walked.

He doesn’t feel his scars pulling and reopening. He doesn’t feel the sting of the skin of his feet blistering and tearing open. Doesn’t feel the pain of his body devouring itself in its hunger. Doesn’t feel his legs giving out under the p Doesn’t feel angry or disgusted or glad to be free or any less alive then he was before he left. All he feels is hollow and empty and broken and the undying need to move, to go on, to get away.

And this level of consciousness scares him, more so know that the drugs are wrecking havoc on his system and this portrayed through the room with hyperrealism. He is just like Peter, senselessly killing the people who had hurt him most. Wonders if this is why he was so attracted to him. If he had only felt that pull to Peter because they had contained the same darkness in their hearts. The thoughts filt through his mind quickly before being taken over by a growing fear.

“Will they arrest me?” Stiles asks in sickening realization.

“Not if we can keep a secret.” The doctor says smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title chapter is from The Neighbourhood's "Sweater Weather."


	6. The Dark Seeks Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh holy beejeebus! This chapter grow out of proportion! I am so sorry! Please enjoy it anyway! :)

They leave the dinner late in the afternoon to take Jackson and Lydia to the airport. Jackson hops in Derek’s Camaro with Peter, Scott, Isaac, Allison and Cora—instead of with Lydia and the rest of the Pack who ride in Danny’s car. It is a tight squeeze for the five rambunctious teenagers in the back: Cora is complaining about the handle pushing into her and Isaac pulls her unto his lap so everyone is more comfortable. Allison is squished between Scott and Jackson. Peter is sure that Jackson only wants to ride with them so he can stare menacingly at the older man.

They ride like this for a few minutes. Derek and Peter in the front of the car and the kids in the back. Derek isn’t talking because he is probably thinking about how Jennifer looks in that little lace-y lingerie she bought over the weekend. Isaac is placing kisses on Cora’s shoulder and Cora is laughing at something Allison has said. Scott is falling asleep on Allison’s shoulder, and Jackson is still glaring daggers at the back of his head.   

He can feel it, and it is annoying. The kid hasn’t stopped staring at the back of his head for the last seven minutes. He doesn’t think his head can be that interesting so obliviously he must have done something to piss Jackson off. He really just wants Jackson to come out and say whatever it is he has done instead of acting like a five year old whose lollipop has been stolen by the mean older kid at the playground. It really wouldn’t be such a big deal if Jackson was actually interacting with the others, but he wasn’t. He was just sitting there glowering at Peter’s head, and when it gets too much he turns around in a flurry, irritated.

“To what do I owe your undying admiration?” Peter demands as Jackson rolls in exasperation and false amusement, a feat only Jackson could pull off with such ease.

“Take him to the fair.” Jackson demands forcefully.

“What?”

“The fair that is in town. Take him there.”  

The car grows suspiciously quiet as the gears start shifting in the Pack member’s heads. The silence fills the car as everyone tries to decide who is going to ask Peter the question. He imagines them playing rock-paper-scissors for the honor, and Scott must have won because eventually he gets up the nerve to ask, “Who is Peter taking to the fair?”

Peter ignores him. “Just yesterday you were telling me not to hurt him. Why would you want me to take him to the fair now?”

“Because he likes going to fairs.”

Derek raises his eyebrows at Peter. “Is there something your keeping from us uncle?”

Jackson is about to tell Derek that it is none of their business, but Peter talks over him, “That still doesn’t answer my question.”

“I am just trying to help you get in his pants.”

“Oh? Is that how you got in his pants.”

Jackson bulks and turns his head. He stares irately out the window for a few minutes. He turns back around to face Peter and his voice is fierce and low, a barely contained snarl, as he states, “Do not degrade my friendship with him because you’re angry. I don’t like you Peter, but he does. And even though it angers me I just want him to be happy, and I know you will treat him better than who ever he ends up forcing himself to be with. You will understand him better. I am just trying to help him, okay?”

Peter doesn’t want to hear anymore of it, doesn’t want to have to think about Stiles when his nephew is sitting right next to him, so he turns on the radio. Some upbeat pop song about parties and sex blares through the speakers, but the auto tune voices and overused synthesizer does nothing to cut through the tension building in the car. It only makes it worse, and doesn’t do anything for the confusion the Pack is feeling either. Peter can feel any hope of the happy car ride to the airport burning up in the heater of the car.

When they arrive, Stiles is pushing a stroller in the middle of the airport. He is donning the most atrocious garment any of them has ever seen in their short little lives. He is waving at them with the goofiest smile on his face. There are people taking pictures of him, and others stopping to point at him. It is all really rather embarrassing and Peter avoids looking at the offending clothing as much as possible. The boy saunters over towards them, laughing at Jackson’s facial expression.

“You’re wearing it.” Jackson says exasperatedly.

“Wow. Nothing escapes your keen eyes, hey Jackie boy.” Stiles jokes quietly. One of the babies cries beneath the canopy of the stroller. He pulls a face as he leans over, and once he has he announces he has to change a diaper. He promises to be back and turns to head for the bathroom. 

Jackson takes this time to turn menacingly towards them. His eyes flashing blue for a second before he says, “take good care of him. But if you hurt him, and this goes for all of you,” Jackson says looking at the teens standing next to him, “I will go omega on your asses so fast you won't understand what’s happened until your lying on the floor dead.”

Everyone is stunned into silence, besides Stiles, who is far enough away that he can’t hear what Jackson is saying. Everyone in the Pack stares mystified by Jackson’s sudden change in demeanor, but Peter finds his eyes falling on Stiles’ ass as the kid walks away. The way the fine materials accentuate his firm buttocks perfectly, clinging in all the right places. The material, even in all of its atrociousness, frames his hips just right as they sway back and forth. He watches them sliding and bunching over the round spheres, until the boy is disappearing behind the bathroom door.  

 “Look,” Jackson grumbles, pulling Peter’s attention back to him, “he has worked a long time to get to this point and I do not want to get a call at a party telling me he has drowned himself in the ocean because you fuck heads couldn’t get your noses out of each other’s asses long enough to notice he was falling apart. Do you understand me?”

Before any fangs and claws come out—because really Jackson had just challenged a True Alpha and his Pack in the middle of a fucking airport—Stiles is strolling over with two packages in his hand. He hands one to Jackson, and Jackson scoffs rolling his eyes. The other he hands to Lydia, who opens it on sight.

It is a blue ray copy of The Notebook, and Lydia smiles but it is all for pretense as she tells him it is a thoughtful gift. Jackson scoffs, and Peter gets the feeling the gift was originally intended as some kind of cruel joke for Jackson. Jackson says something to Stiles pointing to the wrapped gift and Stiles beams. He doesn’t catch what is uttered between them because a crowd of kids walks by and all the noise drowns out Stiles’ laughs.

Peter always hated going to crowded places like this. All the noise messes with his werewolf hearing and gives him headaches. He barely hears Jackson whisper into Stiles ear as he pulls him into a parting hug. Jackson is telling Stiles he will take the next semester off if Stiles needs him to. Stiles shakes his head, and tells Jackson he is not a kid anymore. Explaining that he can handle all the Big Bads that come his way, but something in Jackson expression tells him Stiles really can’t. The way Jackson carefully hides his worry behind that wall of irritation like he isn’t trying to destroy everything Stiles had worked for with a simple look of concern, and that scares Peter. The look disappears as Stiles wraps Lydia up in a big hug. Then Stiles is stepping back, and the two are picking up their luggage and waving one last goodbye.

Jackson is slipping behind the airport security and he speaks quietly. His voice being swallowed up in the blare of security beeps and the rustle of people hurriedly putting up their personal belongings in the small containers airports provide.

“Peter, call me when he starts acting strange.”

Peter can’t stop the feeling of dread blossoming in his chest because there are no bleeps in the steadiness of his heartbeat. Because Jackson did not say ‘if Stiles starts acting strange,’ he had said ‘when.’ Which means Jackson truly believes Stiles was going to start acting strange, and Peter is unsettled by the control in Jackson’s tone. Because it is never good when your last resort is Jackson Whittemore.

\--

Hannibal aids Stiles in the fabrication of a plausible story about his escape. They keep most of the details Stiles’ own mind had supplied him the same. They alter some minor details: the man was a man in his early twenties, six foot four, with green eyes, light blonde hair with a curly red beard. They thinks it is best to included how many freckles where on his face and how the yellow speckles in of his eyes contrasted with the blue. The more detailed the better the chance Stiles had of throwing the F.B.I off his tracks.

As they discuss, Dr. Lecter grabs a carton of eggs out of the fridge. He asks Stiles to get out a bowl from the cabinet above the stove. Stiles does with a hazy mind and when he turns around the doctor is waiting with the carton of eggs and a sack of flour by the island in the middle of the kitchen. He instructs Stiles to pour the flour into the bowl, and shows him how to curve out a hollow in the middle for the eggs. Stiles tries to cracks the egg on the side of the bowl, but his muddled brain sends the wrong nerves to all the wrong places.

He ends up cracking it in the shakiness of his hand. The light yellow translucent albumin fluid seeps through the cracks he had created in the white posterior of the heard shell. The milky white chalazas running in disgustingly slow viscosity down the skin of his forearm. A darker, heavier, yellow liquid sits deeper in the palm of his hand and it feels the familiar in its heaviness, but Stiles doesn’t meditate on it long. Because, yolk is seeping through his fingers and all he sees is the harshness of blood passing over his appendages in a sickening overflow, the dampness of the human essence trickling through his hand in controlled measure. An appalling sensation is synapsing across his already abused receptors. Leaving him dreadfully aware of the twisted pleasure blossoming in the center of his gut, that he wished not to have.

He is drowning in the carnage, sinking further into the depths liquid, and the power it offers until it is increasingly harder to tell what is real and what is delusion, until it is hard to see through the haze and growing need to govern that is spreading through him. Until it is hard to breath and dots are blurring his visions. Then there is a hand on his chest grounding him to the present, bringing him back from the sea of violence and into the safe confines of this kitchen. The doctor is telling him to breathe. Stiles tries matching his heart rate to his doctors and when he does the doctor kneels, grinning.

“Why don’t we try again?” He says, patiently smiling, waiting for Stiles to pick himself up and dust himself off.

Stiles smiles weakly at him because the doctor didn’t say, ‘you,’ he had said ‘we.’ Making Stiles feel that he wasn’t going to have to go through this all on his own.  So Stile gets up and dusts himself off. Standing determined by the little island.

It only takes him three tries to crack the egg without breaking down, and finally break the egg on the side of the bowl instead of in his shaking hand. He then adds a black liquid he is unfamiliar with, and some olive oil to the mix. His reactions are delayed because of the psilocybin working it’s way through his system so it takes some time to incorporate all the ingredients into the dough. Dr. Lector stands there unwaveringly guiding him through the process, and offering up small praises as he sees fit. By the end of it he is tired but there is a little ball of black dough sitting in the bowl that leaves him satisfied.

Afterwards, Hannibal teaches Stiles the proper technique for kneading the dough. He pours flour of over the cutting board, placing half of the black dough on one side, for himself, and the other half for Stiles on the other side. It was thrilling folding the white flour into the dark folds of the dough. Watching as whiteness vanishes into the cervices Stiles had created. Uncontrollably oppressed by its darkness until the flour is plagued by blackness. The blackness growing and growing until they have become one and the same. Until the white had molded so beautifully together in the black you could not tear them about and they are the same entity and Stiles is feeling revoltingly gleeful.

Hannibal takes the dough from him, then placing the two halves into the same container. He puts it in the fridge to sit, and makes Stiles a cup of water. Stiles accepts the cup wearily and they sit in uneasy silence for a long while. Stiles doesn't like the silence so he murmurs, “I’m seeing people. People who aren’t there, that shouldn’t be there.”

“Who are you seeing?”

“My mom, Peter, a girl named Abigail.”

The doctor is thinking, he raises his glass of wine to take a sip before speaking with intent, “Hallucinations are symptoms often exhibited by patients recovering from a stroke? You suffer several other symptoms of a stroke: depression, anxiety, and suicidal tendencies. Of course, these can all be effects of the trauma you experienced, but the hallucinations cause me to think you have suffered a stroke in the right hemisphere of your brain, where the cognitive functions take place.” He pauses for a second to take another sip, “You will stop showing signs in a few weeks. If the hallucinations persist, well we will discuss that later.” 

Stiles nods absentmindedly while swishing the water around in his cup. Its fluidity draws in his attention. The color vibrant and blinding, the rippling of the translucent surface as the water crashes violently against the sides of the cup, the repetitive splashing of the liquid is all too much for his hypersensitive perceptions, and the cup is crashing to the floor. Spilling all over the perfectness of the doctor’s tiled floor. Stiles stares indifferently at the mess he has created. Stunned into immobility

Time passes while Stiles gazes negligently out of the large window on the other side of doctor’s kitchen. He is too caught up in the vibrant colors fleeting over the outside world. In the way the butterfly’s wings flap viciously in their struggle to combat the frigid air surrounding them. The way the dying leaves tremble in fear of the abuse the unrelenting wind produces in them. The way the strong butterfly seeks shelter in the hollowness of the dying tree. He sees it all in flawless detail. Watches as the creators ultimate design unfolds perfectly before an unsuspecting audience: The way a single life form struggles, pursing protection from the harshness of life, and finds it, clinging to the closest volatile object it can find. The exhausted form too tired to care that the place in which it rests its head is diseased, and dilapidated from the dehydration of a rainless summer. Contracting the infectious disease as it lays its fatigued head against the artificial the dying thing radiates, only to carry it within itself for the rest of it’s tiny miserable life as it eats away at the only remaining life source it has left. The clatter of metal hitting marble arouses Stiles from his thoughts. Hannibal has taken out the dough and is now laying it out over a floured cutting board. He motions Stiles over, and Stiles notices all traces of his mess have been wiped from the floor.

Hannibal has power. This kitchen, it is his domain. A citadel constructed by his own hand where he governs over the populace of inferior spices and unwanted food. It shows in the immaculateness of his clean counters, in the precise folding of his sleek linens, the systematic placement of his spices on the smooth wood. The way he rolls his shirtsleeves with skillful tenacity. His hands pressing into the dough like a man stepping on a bug. His whole body leaning into the push and fold insinuating the power he held through his movements. He was an artist. A creator. A manipulator of the elements, and Stiles wants every bit of power that the man possesses in his elegant poise. He wants to feel the rush of creation flowing through his fingers, and the irrefutable euphoria that comes with the power to destroy it all in the same moment.

The doctor gets out a rolling pin, guiding Stiles through the motions, and diminishing the dough into thin sheets. Stiles is slower than the doctor, but eventually, he gets them thin enough. The older man places a large cutting knife in Stiles hand. He shows Stiles how to cut the blackness into small lines with his hands. The older man cuts cleanly through the dough, but Stiles hands are still shaking so his noodles come out a little messy. It upsets him but the doctor smiles so Stiles doesn’t feel too bad anymore.

The doctor takes the noodles and places them in boiling water one by one. Stiles observes as the noodles sink to the bottom of the bubbling water. Slipping under water, falling gracelessly, spiraling until they have hit the hard metal of the pan. Sprawling out and compacting together they sit motionless as the water rages around the mass of dark noodles.

 “The noodles are done.” The voice calls him back from his daydream and tells him to get a strainer from the kitchen cabinet.

Stiles is given the task of straining the noodles, and when he turns around there is red meat laying on the kitchen counter. The bowl slips out of his hand, crashing to the floor, and he is sinking to the ground. Back resting against the smooth grain of the doctor’s expensive cabinets, taking shallow breaths, in and out in quick spurts. Noodles cover Jackson’s sweatshirt. The hot from the water seeps through his shirt and stings in the places the material sticks to his skin. The hand is on him again, pulling him back from the bloody scenes playing before his eyes.

When he opens his eyes again the doctor’s hand is not his own. They are familiar and weathered and calloused and everything the doctors are not. They have the freckles sprinkling the tan skin Stiles had been so dedicated to counting when he was five. He looks up further and he gasps when he sees the face staring back at him.

He wants to cry but he can’t. His dad is standing right there in front of him. His mom is there too, just behind his dad. They are both smiling, opening their arms in welcome. He wants to laugh, to move, but he can’t because he is paralyzed in the spot. Intoxicated by his fear.

The person before him tilts his head, his voice warm and familiar, enquiring, “What is it you see, Stiles?”

“Family.”

\--

“Why did you come back, Stiles?” Peter asks Stiles, who is nervously fiddling his keys as Scott situates the babies in the back of the Jeep.

“Family. My dad is here. Scott is here. The Pack is here.” Stiles watches Scott tuck the babies’ car seats safely in the back seat.

“If that’s why, man, why didn’t you come back sooner?” Scott chimes in after he has hopped in between the two car seats.

Stiles dotes on it a while, pushing the keys into ignition. He stares at the wheel, hands in his pockets, and as he speaks his voice breaks, “Impaired decision making skills, Scott my man. At least that’s what they said.”

Peter can see that Scott is about to ask. Can practically see his hero side surfacing to reach out and comfort the boy sitting in front of him. Peter can also see the way Stiles flinches when people stand to close or the way he trembles when hand reach for him. He doesn’t want to see the look in his eyes again so Peter shoots a look at Scott, and he hopes it conveys his message. Scott’s eyes flash read for a second, but the fade as he retracts his hand, sinking further between the car seats—yes Scott was his Alpha but Peter still scared the kid shitless enough that the Alpha would shut up and listen to him if Peter acted well enough.

Peter is watching the city lights fading as they speed away. Trees rapidly approaching them on both sides of the road as the tires bring them closer and closer to the forest’s edge. He is so caught up in the changing colors of the leafs, he doesn't notice the boy talking to him.

“So, uh, you seeing anyone?”

For a second Peter thinks Stiles is talking to Scott, which is ridiculous because they discussed this just two days ago over Thanksgiving diner. He realizes when Scott is still making cooing noises in the back that this is not true. Stiles is asking him, with those brown eyes trained on him. He knows Stiles is just asking to break the silence, but he hopes it is for other reasons. He has to squash those hopes before he gets to carried away.

“What?”

“You and that guy from the bar seemed pretty cozy. Do you guys still you know…?” Stiles was always one to be straight forward and it was nice to see that little quirk had stayed the same over the years. Peter thought it was especially nice that a little blush was starting to color Stiles normally pale cheeks.

Peter shakes his head because he honestly has no idea who the kid is talking about. He had forgotten him the moment Stiles had fallen to the floor and their hands had intertwined together.

Stiles blushes even harder and starts fidgeting in his seat. “Are you and my dad seeing each other?

“What? Ew. Stiles, no bro,” and Scott takes that silent moment to launch into the romantic development that had begun blossoming between the Sheriff and Ms. McCall after Stiles had disappeared. He even lets Scott divulge the dirty details about him helping the Sheriff get Melissa out on a date for the first time. They fall into comfortable silences that last all the way back to the house.

Derek and Isaac are already standing at the door when they pull up. They help get Laura and John-Scott out of the car while Peter takes Stiles’ diaper bag—Stiles is tentative, but Peter insists. Walking together to the front steps feels refreshing like someone had finally righted something that had been wrong for so long. Leaving them feeling complete again, and it is something Peter thinks they have needed for a long time. 

Stiles shoos them away when they enter the house. He heads straight for the kitchen after making sure his babies are in good hands. Stopping just once to apologized to everyone for the lateness of dinner. They all find it strange but no one questions it.  

Peter hears the clanking of pots hitting the counter tops in the kitchen. Hears the soft rustle of fabric being unfolded, the soft press of flour hitting a cutting board, and the sound of two wooden objects rolling against each other. They all try at easy conversation, but they are all too distracted by the noises coming from the kitchen to get it right. The smell is what really gets them though, and Scott is the first to cave and leave the living room with Laura in his arms.

Everyone makes their way into the kitchen eventually. All mesmerized by the grace Stiles has darting around the kitchen. There is hardly any mess despite Stiles throwing flour everywhere. Everything is meticulously in place: bowls stacked together in the sink, cooking utensils placed in order, the linens flawlessly folded. Stiles’ ghastly suit jacket rests on a chair. Peter half expected his shirtsleeves to be rolled up, but they are not.

There is a fierce determination in his eyes, a kind of cool control. The way he works the dough with his hand in a dominative ease is scary yet remarkable. There is nothing of the floundering boy in the way he moves with quiet grace. Nothing resembling the flailing boy in the way he kneads the dough with measured power. Nothing left of the babbling kid in the way his jaw is set; his eyes are hollow, and his mouth severe in the setting sun. It is remarkable yet scary, and Peter gets the feeling that everyone else in the room is feeling this way too.

Stiles pulls out a knife. Slicing through the black dough, and when he finishes, he puts it in a pot full of boiling water. He stirs it intermittently as he warms something over the stove. He asks them questions about teachers. They tell him Finstock is still coaching lacrosse, and was actually the most distraught over Stiles death-appearance—that he had cancelled lacrosse for a week because it just wasn’t the same without his Bilinski. Tell him about the ritual sacrifices and Mr. Harris dying in the woods. Stiles takes out the noodles and mixes them in a sauce half way through describing Mrs. Morrel’s death. He puts the noodles on plates for everyone, and the chatter mindlessly about lacrosse and Finstock until they have finished. Peter notices sadly as Stile is picking up everyone’s dishes that he had not made a dish for himself—which was sad because it most delicious thing he had had.   

It becomes apparent to Peter that there is a Pack sleepover going on by the blankets and bodies littering the living room floor. He passes through the hallway briefly stopping to look on at his Pack, and turns to leave, not wanting to get tangled up next to Stiles, and make the room uncomfortable when they smell his arousal. Derek asks where he is going, and Peter says he is going to sleep upstairs. Scott and Isaac practically beg for him to come ‘get in on this Pack love.’ Peter has always never been one for groveling—lavish praises maybe but groveling he could not stand—so he ends up standing next to Stiles’ head explaining why a thirty-seven year old man does not need to be cuddled up in a mass of teenage boys. 

Stiles grips the bottom of his jeans, tugging him closer to the snuggling pile of bodies. Peter stands firm not wanting in on this mass of cuddling men, but Stiles reaches for his hand, pulls him down next to him and Peter can’t really resist that. They spend a few minutes resituating. Stiles ends up on the outside of the pile, the closest to the door. Scott is pushed up against Isaac and Derek is spooning against Isaac’s back. Scott’s leg has wrapped around his own, and that is just wrong on so many levels. Stiles has pillowed his head on Peter’s chest, and his hand is still heavy in his own so he ignores Scott’s leg and focuses on the smell coming off of Stiles. Peter feels himself drifting to sleep as he listens to the steadiness of Stiles breath.

He wakes in the early morning. The Sheriff is just walking in, raising his eyebrows at the mass of shirtless men clouding his floor, but he is to tired to question so he just heads up to bed. Peter rolls over, feeling the edge of sleep taking him over, but he realizes someone is missing—someone whose hand is no longer warming his own. He listens for the sound of his heart, and when he hears it, he moves slowly towards it.

Outside the sun is just rising over the tops of the houses. Casting the boy in a beautiful light. Or, it would be beautiful if it didn’t accentuate the hollowness of the boy’s cheeks or the black circles darkening under his eyes and that atrocious suit he is still wearing form the day before.

They babies are laid out on a blanket next to where Stiles is sitting. They are sound a sleep and not even all the noise of the songbirds can wake them. Peter moves to sit next to the boy, and he does not miss the way the boy shifts further away. However unconscious it may be. 

“Couldn’t sleep?” Peter asks pulling Stiles out of his reverie.

Stiles doesn’t answer, doesn’t acknowledge that he is there. Hands working tirelessly put things together. His mind concentrating on this one thing, and it gives Peter the chance to examine Stiles face in way he couldn’t when the others around. Without the make up the circles around his eyes are more predominant, and Peter wonders how any amount of make could cover them up at all.

“When was the last time you slept, Stiles?”

The boy just shrugs and continues piecing the tiny toys together. His fingers furiously push things together, and pull them apart. Picking up other shapes in the hopes they will fit, and putting them done when they didn’t. It is maddening to watch as the long fingers move against the reflective façade of the thing he is creating in his hand. Peter worries when he realizes what it is, but he needs to make sure that is what it is before he freaks out on the boy.

 “What are you in such a hurry to build?”

Stiles hands stop moving and he stares down at the thing he is making like it is his first time seeing it, and comprehension dawns on his face, as he understands just what exactly he is building. He puts his creation down one the floorboards of the porch, frowning. Early morning light reflects off the blue and white Legos. It is almost complete, Peter sees, but it is missing a piece. Just at the top where the muzzle should be.

“It doesn’t matter.” Stiles says dismantling his creation. He stands stretching and picks up his babies, leaving the blanket on the floor. Peter shoots Stiles a look and the boy replies brokenly, “It will never be complete.”

Sighing, Stiles says, “How ‘bout some breakfast? I’ll get started. Go wake up the doggies. ”

Peter is sure the dog joke is a poorly executed attempt of humor, but it comes of every ounce of icy as a cold winter’s day. It seems to Peter like Stiles was trying to piece himself back together, but things aren’t fitting right. Making the boy feel incomplete and as fake as his dog joke.

Stiles walks away, his laughs hollow, leaving the little toy gun he had created resting on the porch.

\--

“What are you building there?”

Stiles fingers quit moving. He looks vacantly at the blue and white Legos weighing down his hands. The hard edges biting into the skin of his hand, reminding him that he is alive. He brushes his thumbs distractedly along the reflective smoothness of the hard surfaces. He knows what it is, what he is forming out of this little toys, but he doesn’t want to acknowledge it. His must’ve felt a threat in the room because his hands had instinctively created this little marvel: a little gun made of blue and white Legos.

Stiles grips the toy weapon tight as the woman pulls out a chair beside him. She is pretty with long brown hair and pale skin. She stood straight; there was no insecurities or doubts hindering her shoulders. Confident and controlled but there was compassion blazing just under the cool surface of he confidence. Nothing is threatening about her presence so Stiles reluctantly looses his grip on the tiny toy gun.

She stands there staring at him, obviously waiting for a response. Stiles is amazed really her heels must be aching but he is not planning on talking about this. He wants to keep his mouth sealed on anything related to, well, everything. Until they had to physically pry his mouth open to get information about what he eats for breakfast out of him.

She is still there, silently watching him work the pieces together. He is still there, not saying anything. Eventually her eyes work around the room and land on a door handle not too far away. Stiles knows right as her gaze lingers what she is thinking, and he is thinking of the easiest way to avoid the situations she plans to get him in. He can’t before she asks,  “Why don’t we move to another room?”

“Did Jack send you here?”

“No. I came on my own. I wanted to see how you were doing.”

Stiles knows this woman with the long wavy brown hair and silky paisley blouse. They hand never formally been introduced but they often saw each other around the dark hallways outside of the integration room—he was coming out, she was coming in. Jack always said hello to her gruffly, and she always said hello back just as gruffly. She was a fierce kind of woman. One who could hold her ground against the likes of Jack Crawford while rocking a pencil skirt and stiletto heels. Someone who cared for others and wasn’t afraid to insert herself between an instigator and her patients. He had seen it in the countless times she had denied Jack psych eval’s he so desperately wanted. So he knew that she wasn’t lying, that she came on her own. Even if Jack had wanted her here, she only came because of a deep fear that Stiles was trapped in the bleakness of his mind.

“How about that room, hmm?”

“Dr. Bloom, I don’t think that would be a very good idea.” Stiles states quietly. He is dreads what he might do to her.

“And why is that?”

“I don’t know what will happen if we do.”

She doesn’t say anything to that. Just watches as his fingers go back to fitting plastic pieces into a gun. He’s watching a guy near the entrance and that need to protect himself is growing dominant again. His fingers working furiously to prefect the little toy even though he knows it won’t grant him any protection. She eyes him with her sad brown eyes like she gets all the feelings that aren’t there, that should be there.

“Why are you doing this, Stiles?” She enquires sweetly and her sculpted eyebrows furrow in concern.

“Because I like Legos?” Stiles retorts sourly. He sighs because she looks at him like that actually physically hurt her. “Because they are treating me like I am an unstable five who needs Legos to stabilize my life. Like a little plastic toy is going help put me back together.” He says placing his creation heatedly upon the table.

“Well maybe you can? If you look at it, they are just tiny pieces of a puzzle. But, unlike puzzles, they are tiny components that you can mold into bigger, better things. Unlike puzzles they do not have a predetermined end. You can make it whatever you want it to be.”

“Yeah, but the pieces of me that I lost are scattered across so many kitchen floors and have been sucked up through so many different vacuum cleaners that I don’t think I will every be able to put the me-pieces back together.” Stiles admits sadly, “Or if I tried, I fear that the last piece will be missing and I will never feel whole again.”

She grabs Stiles hands gently and when he finally looks her in the eye she says, “It never hurts to try.”

Stiles has learned how to work these people. All it took was a little nod of the head and little smile and they think you are just magically healed. Like you are going to fucking turn into the fucking abominable snowman just cause you ‘tired.’ Stiles hates it, all of this, but he plays along because he doesn’t want to be here anymore.

“It’s a little dull in here, don’t you think? Why don’t we get of here? We could go get something to eat? I hear you like curly fries.”

Stiles nods furiously, sucking back all the saliva suddenly pooling at the front of his mouth because he hasn’t had those heavenly deep fried potatoes in almost two years. He also doesn’t want to be in this room longer than he has to, but really all he wants are those curly fries. He doesn’t want to play with Legos that always turn into weapons anymore. He doesn’t want to have to ponder way, and if curly fries can take a little of the hollowness slowly consuming him, however little, he will take it gladly.

\--

Stiles had made some delicious looking bread with a fried egg nestled in it. Sausage was frying in the pan by the time they all make it into the kitchen. Even thing smells amazing, but Peter is quite aggravated because Stiles is still wearing that atrocious

They all insist on making their own plates but Stiles has none of it, arranging the food artfully on separate plates. Urging them all to sit at the table as he brings the plates over to them.  They all dig in, stuffing their faces, and a comfortable silence settles in around them. Peter notices that Stiles neglected to make himself a plate again.

Scott is the first of them to speak, “We are going to the fair tomorrow. Peter is asking someone out on a date,” his takes a pause, wiggling his eyebrows and suggesting, “we got to be there to support him.”

Derek raises his eyebrows, “You’re asking someone out?” He practically sees the ‘why haven’t told me’ radiating of his nephew as he crosses his arms. Stiles is about to ask who and Peter cuts him off, “I am not taking anyone to the fair.”

Scott and Isaac look put out. Derek looks relived, and Stiles looks hopeful. Which could just be Peter being irrational, but he is going to think that is hope etched across the boy’s face. He looks back at Scott and says, “By all means, you guys can still go to the fair if you want. Don’t let me stop you.”

They younger boys start planning the details of their little outing with excited enthusiasm. Derek glares at Peter and demands he goes with them because there is no way that is chaperoning the whole Pack in that big of a place on his own. His nephew also murmurs something about how it is all Peter’s fault. Peter decides to withhold his answer because he had already decided he was going, but watching his nephew squirm was too much fun.

“You’re coming with us too, right?” Isaac hopefully looks up to Stiles, pulling Peter from plotting his dastardly plans.

“Yeah. I’ll ask my dad to watch the babies.”

Yes, Peter thinks, yes his is definitely going.

Afterwards, they end up sprawled out over the living room floor. Peter is working on the computer: cataloging sales. Scott and Stiles laugh over some stupid comic book issue that came out last week, holding the babies in between their legs. Isaac is making awkward small talk on the phone—which Peter tries to drone out because he honestly does not need to know where Isaac is sticking _that_ in _his_ niece. By the way Derek turns up the volume on the Young and the Restless, Peter thinks he doesn’t want to hear it either. It is nice and everyone is already drifting back to sleep.

It is around one when Stiles stomach growls and he is dashing up the stairs. He stumbles around up there awhile. The sound of running water hits his ears, and Peter has to focus on Derek and Isaac arguing to stop the images of a wet naked Stile running through his head. When Stiles comes back down he is dressed in plain suit and black dress shoes.

“You know what I would kill for right now? Some curly fries.” He says smiling.

\--

Stiles blinks: closes his eyes, opens his eyes. He doesn't feel the tears but he knows they should be there. That there should be the sting of water welling in his eyes, but instead there is nothing. Some things, he thinks, lie to deep for tears to well. He thinks maybe he should rub his hands at his eyes—like he is wiping away tears—as he recounts his tale. He thinks it will him look more insane than he already sounds so he finishes the story looking emotionlessly at the curly fry in his hand.

 “That is an awful lot guilt for someone your age to carry around.”

“Yeah, the anxiety was what got me the most, though. Waiting for them to come for me, it was hard.” He takes a breath, “I suffered a lot of panic attacks those first few years—their faces were everywhere I turned. Everyone thought it was losing mom—and yeah that was part of it—but it was really the fear that they could be waiting for me in the kitchen that really got me.”

She nods, saying, “And this man, Peter, did you develop feelings for him.”

Stiles starts to shake his head but she is preventing him from doing so as she speaks, “it is okay if you did, or do. It is perfectly normal for those types of feelings to appear in a patient who has went through what you went through.”

Stiles turns his head away. It’s not that he can’t say yes, exactly, because he had developed feelings for Peter, but they had developed much to late for them to be the aftermath of the traumatic events of his childhood. It wasn’t until the man was exerting power over Stiles that the things below his belt started taking interest. It is fucked up, he knows, but what can he say the dark seeks dark. And, his dark heart had been attracted to the darkness Peter exuded. Had even sought it out in the end, and Dr. Bloom doesn't need to know about the darkness radiating just under his skin—at least that is what has Hannibal told him.

So, he doesn’t say anything. Saying things, admitting to them will only get him in trouble. Would reveal things that he isn’t even ready to admit to his own self yet. Things that he is would rather forget by setting up carefully placed walls around himself. That is why he hunkers down in his resolve to not say anything to anyone about Peter and the wolves an the men with scary faces.

They stare at the big basket of curly fires sitting in between them. Not moving. An uneasy silence has settles around them and Stiles can see her deliberating what she is going to say next. What would be best to say. What would be safe say. She speaks quietly when she figures it out.

 “You know Jack called him?”

“Peter?”

“Your father. It’s protocol. He called when your dad wasn’t home, though. I think he doesn’t want your dad to answer. He probably thinks he is really close to cracking the case, and having your dad show up might cause you to close off anymore than you already are. I told him it was a bad idea. You need a stable figure in your life right now. Not to mention how many laws I am sure he is breaching. It’s unethical.”

“I am sure he just doesn’t want to do the paper work. It takes a lot to make a person undead again.”

She inhales a breath sharply, “how could you possibly know about that?”

“They’d show me the newspaper clippings from when the case was still open.”

She curses under her breath and Stiles thinks she is breaching professional neutrality but he smiles because she was angry for him. They stare at each other some more before Stiles moves forward, stealing a curly fry from the basket. She watches him as he grabs another curly fry, “You really don't want to go back then.”

“There is nothing really appealing about seeing your own grave.” He says dryly as he bites harshly in the crisp potatoes.

She shoots him a displeased look, so he carries on, “What would I do there. Here I can’t see _them_ , but moving into that house I’d see _them_ everywhere: in my dreams, when I closed my eyes, even as I walked down the hall or when I am in the shower. I’d have panic attacks _all_ the time. The relationship with my dad would be strained because there is no way in hell I am telling what really happened. He’d hate me.”

“And having him believe you are dead is easier than seeing the pain your lies will cause him.” She finishes for him as he picks up the last fry.

“All right, I’ll talk to Jack and see what I can do.”

Stiles lets out a sigh of relief, but breaths it back in as she holds out a neon green flyer. “Under one condition, you go to the fair this week.”

\--

Allison is shooting plastic yellow ducks behind the counter of one of the booths to win Scott a prize plush wolf. Isaac and Cora have left them far behind to wait in line for the Kamikaze—what young adults found appealing about floating upside down he will never know. Derek and Jennifer walk hand-in-hand just a few feet in front of him, with Jennifer’s head resting on Derek’s shoulder. Peter wants to reach out for Stiles’ hand just like Jennifer had reached for Derek’s, but Stiles walking to far away for Peter to even attempt it. Not to mention the boy might freak out in the state he is in.

It might seem to the others that Stiles wide eyes are caused from his amazement of the bright lights and sounds coming from the fair. It took an older wiser wolf to hear the small spikes in the boy’s heartbeat when someone got to close, to realize the well hidden tremors coursing beneath the dense fabric of his suit, to understand that the boy’s wide eyes were not caused by the merriment of the fair around him but by fear.

Allison still hasn’t shot a duck by the time the four of them reach the both she occupies. She is getting a little agitated, and Peter is afraid to approach her. Even though it only a toy gun. He had seen her like this with things less terrifying and watched her mutilate whatever was terrorizing their little town. Excuse him if he wasn’t stepping anywhere near that for the next few minutes.

Stiles, though, he is right up next to her in an instant. Putting a few dollars on the counter and picking up the toy gun. Setting the hard edge of the toy squarely on his shoulder with practiced ease. Taking a steading breath before releasing the trigger, and discharging a plastic bullet from the barrel. The plastic bullet hits a duck straight in the eye knocking it off the moving conveyor belt. He gets a fluffy black wolf with red eyes, and holds it out to Scott while smiling triumphantly.

 “How did you do that, man?” Scott asks in awe of his old friend’s skill as he takes the toy from him.

“I was a bodyguard for the head of the CIA while I was gone,” he says sarcastically,  “How do you think I did that, Scott? Obviously, I—”

Peter never gets to find out what Stiles was obviously doing while he was away because a hand is latching onto his arm, and pulling him away. Forcing his legs to move or cause the both of them to fall in a heap of mangled limbs. Isaac’s, he realizes, curls bouncing against his head as they ran. The sound of a girls laughing follows them, and he looks behind him to see the Pack running after them. He smiles to himself because he is a grown man being pulled along by a teenager and then their feet are slowing as they approach the Ferris Wheel. He and Isaac wait for the others to catch up, holding a place for them in line.

Peter and Stiles end up in the same cart after much deliberation between the Pack. Everyone decides to ride in couples. Leaving Peter and Stiles the only two without a riding partner. Peter was ecstatic about the idea before they actually got in the car where Stiles crowds himself into the corner. Not talking to Peter, just sitting patient and emotionlessly as he waits for the machine to start.

Isaac and Cora in the cart before them, and as the ride starts up Peter can see Isaac’s hand slipping around his niece’s waist. Head leaning against hers as he whispers in her ear. Peter lets out a growl when Isaac’s tongue pokes out to lick the shell of her ear. Stiles is snapping out of his trance and looks towards Isaac and Cora’s cart.

“It could be worse. She could have ended up with someone much worse.”

Peter raises his eyebrows. Stiles looks out the opening in the window. His whole body is collapsing against the side of the car, finally giving into exhaustion. His eyes flutter close. Body jolting awake as his head drops off his hand and clangs on the hard metal of the car. They have circled the wheel when Peter finally breaks the silence by asking, “Do you not trust me, Stiles?”

“Trust is a complicated word, Mr. Hale.”

“I think the correct definition of the word is being able to rely or believe in another person.” 

Peter can practically hear the bullshit retort Stiles is about to supply him with so he stops him by giving him a cutting look.

Stiles sighs, “It’s not like I trusted you before. You were killing people and you threatened me and basically molested the only girl I had ever lov—” Stiles catches his lip in between his teeth as he corrects, “the girl I had loved on a football field at my winter formal. That doesn’t sound like someone I should rely on or believe in.”

Peter can’t argue with that so he says nothing, but Stiles must see the hurt he caused Peter because he continues, “I look at you and you disgust me.”

Peter’ heart drops in his chest and a sense of defeat is welling up from his gut. It hurts more than mourning Stiles’ death ever did. Knowing that the kid doesn’t want him. At least in his death he had known that the kid had held some kid of physical attraction to him, but that could have just been a desperate attempt at losing virginity by a desperate kid.

Stiles looks straight into Peter’s eyes, his face blank and devoid of all emotions, as he explains, “I get it. I see why you did what you did. I see why Matt did it. I understand it. I see the appeal in it.”

Peter knows he doesn’t need to ask. He already knows the answer, but he needs to hear it to believe. The words are leaving his lips before he can think of consequences. Before he can deicide if he really, really, wants to know the answer. So he enquires, “What is it that you find so appealing?”

“The killing.”

The words hang densely in the tension slowly building in the small cart. Stiles is exerting an air of calmness as he sits straight staring distantly out the window, but Peter can hear how the confession makes the boy’s heart beat maddeningly under his skin. He feels his own heart pacing under the rising dread of what has befallen Stiles. Not helping the to ease the edginess of the boy sitting the in front of him. The ride in uneasiness silence three times around the Ferris Wheel until it finally stops.

Stiles is fumbling out the opening as soon as it the Ferris Wheel worker opens it. He pushes of his seat and stumbles hurriedly off the ride. Feet scrabbling down rickety stairs, and his arms flailing as he pushes people out of his way. He yells at Peter to catch a ride with Derek to the house. Then he is disappearing into the crowd. Everyone looks curiously at Peter as Derek runs after Stiles.

Derek appears out of the mass of people looking troubled. Scott asks Derek if he had found Stiles, and the broody wolf shakes his head no. The two turn their attention to Peter and he shrugs his shoulders in nonchalance. Derek groans and tells him that he can walk back to the Stilinski house. Peter nods as he starts his long walk back home.

Stiles doesn’t come back to the house that night, and Peter spends the whole night worrying. Curled up in Stiles’ red sweater under Stiles sheets that still smell like him.

\--

“Hurry up, Jackson.” Stiles urges as Jack lags deliberately behind him. Stiles has to remember to stop calling out his name every few seconds because, _oh my god_ , _he_ is starting to sound like Lydia.

The werewolf is piddling near the one of the food vendors, and god, Stiles hopes Jackson isn’t craving a hot dog—he could hardly stomach an the caramel apple after the Tilt-a-Whirl. He doesn’t need to add anything vaguely resembling a human appendage added to the mix.

Stiles sits at one of the tables waiting for Jackson to sniff him out. He hopes he comes soon because he feels the anxiety building. He needs someone strong; someone who is a werewolf that can protect him from the monsters wearing carefully crafted human suits. Especially sense the guy by the trashcan is slowly advancing towards him like he was some type of prey, and then Jackson is turning around the corner with a basket of curly fries in as soon as his panic starts to peak.

A year and a half ago if anyone had told him he would be walking around a fair in one of Jackson’s old shirt he would have sent them straight to Mrs. Morrell, because there was just no way in hell he would be all buddy-buddy with Jackson—the fucking king of douches. Yet, here he is in the middle of the fair grounds afraid to take a few steps forward without Jackson right beside him.

They are in the middle of eating when Stiles stops her. She is sitting across the way talking to a girl who had black hair the same length as her and the same blue eyes. They are talking avidly, and he doesn’t want to be creepy but he can’t look away. Jackson must have caught him because he is calling out her name and she is looking confusedly over at them.

She turns back to the woman continues talking for a few minutes. She waves animatedly as she leaves the girl, and heads toward the table they inhabit. Her hair is pulled back emphasizing her beast, and the way they bounce up and down as she moves. He remembers the feel of them against his hands. They way they moved as he took her in the sand. The bright blue of her shirt pulls him out of the memory.

She smiling at him and he doesn’t know what to say. He is just sitting there with his mouth hanging open in shock at seeing her here. Jackson is laughing like Stiles awkwardness is the single most hilarious thing he has seen in his life. The mocking laugh dies off as Abigail takes a set next to Jackson. She smiles shyly before starting, “Sorry, I haven’t been back to the beach in a while.”

“Don't be, no one blames you. Only losers like Stilinski throw up in front of the girl right after he screws them on the beach.”

“Whoa, dude,” Stiles shoots Jackson a warning look, and turns back to Abigail to introduce the two of them. The werewolf actually behaves himself for the rest of the time they eat. He actually ends up offering her some of his funnel cake that she accepts happily, and they all end up walking the fair grounds together afterwards.

Jackson stands menacingly just behind them as they walk down the crowded walkways. He makes snide comments about Stiles not making first line when Abigail knocks the little ducks of their shelf and Stiles can hit one, but at the next both he is the only to make three baskets. He makes them twice more so that they all get a stuffed stag to take home, even though he hands the toys grumpily over to them. Abigail thanks him with a kiss to the cheek as he shrugs it off with his usual douchebaggery. Stiles and Abigail can still tell his flustered, and they snicker to themselves as Jackson stalks angrily in front of them.

With theses two, passing by noisy food vendors, Stiles can almost believe he is still a normal teenager whose life hadn’t been stolen by insane psychos. He can finally let go of the fear they had used to dictate his life since he was a kid and relax. Not like when he is with Will or Hannibal because they are afraid of breaking him.

He knows when this is over, and it is time to go this will end. But, for now he can have the jerk of a best friend and a potential love interest. He can forget his mom and Dad and Scott and Peter. He can forget the killing and death and the numbness slowly consuming his life. He can forget the pressure of the Jack and Hannibal put on him, and play ski ball with some friends while trying to eat as much fried food as possible. Running and skipping to the Ferris Wheel while he linked their arms together; one laughing, and the other glaring furiously at anyone who looks at them twice.

They all crowd into the tiny compartment in the Ferris Wheel: Abigail and Stiles on one side and Jackson on the other. Jackson is rocking the cart like the dick he is and Abigail is laughing carelessly. It’s almost like she is happy but he can see it in her eyes and hear it in her laugh: this is a distraction. Just like it is for him. That just like him she will leave tonight. Returning home to fall back into her own numbness of her own life, and maybe that is why Stiles feels safe with her. He pushes those feelings away as Abigail intertwines their hands together in the darkness of the cart.

 

A week later Will is leaning his hip on the counter top, sipping on his coffee cup. The dogs surround his feet as he reads the morning paper. He looks over the top of the paper as Stiles stumbles into the room. His face pulled tight in repulsion and for a moment Stiles thinks Will has found out about the overabundance of vegetables Stiles has slowly been sneaking into the refrigerator over the past week.

“Morning.” Stiles mutters, breaking the silence of the early morning hours.

“Morning,” he replies as he hands Stiles a cup of coffee, “I was just leaving.”

Stiles hmms in acknowledgement as he watches Will collect his things. He picks up the newspaper as Will shuts the door. The headline catches his attention. A girl has gone missing a couple of towns over—this must have been what had Will so repulsed, and he is just glad he can keep up the on going war with meat in their fridge. The girl in the picture is familiar. It’s the girl Abigail was talking to at the fair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title for this chapter is taken from alt-j's "MS." As well as the the line the "Dark Seeks Dark." Within the next two chapters things are going to start happening! Also the next rest of the chapters will be longer the others, I hope that doesn't bug you guys.


	7. I am a Pretender

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry this took so long! Please forgive me. I rewrote this chapter like five times. Also, seven months pass in Stiles' time line.

The Sheriff has his staff on call. Peter can see his hands itching to pick up the phone, clenching and unclenching around his jacket. The fear sprawls across his face as he asks Peter hesitantly, “You don’t think he has crashed the Jeep in a ditch somewhere, do you?”

“I should certainly hope not.” Peter calmly replies as he lifts Laura into the air. She blows bubbles at him while shrieking as he drops her down and lifts her back up again. The Sheriff watches them anxiously from the door—is ready to leave at a moments notice.

“He could have left.” He admits after awhile.

“He just got here.” Peter reasons, “Plus he wouldn’t just leave his babies here.”

Peter doesn’t know this for sure. There were three years of Stiles’ life that are unaccounted for. Years that everyone thought he was dead, and missed the chance to watch Stiles developing and changing. For all they know Stiles could be a serial killer who serves up his kills on pretty plates like the guy who was on the news this morning. The thought of it makes him shudder so he choses to turn his attention back to the smiling baby girl in his arms.

The Sheriff wrings his jacket again. “We don’t know that for sure. ”

Peter doesn’t reply to that. He just pulls Laura closer and tries not to think about Stiles succumbing to the dark veil of unconsciousness somewhere no one will find him.  

\--

Stiles sits in the darkness of the interrogation room waiting for Jack Crawford to come in. It is not the first time he has been held in this room, but he desperately wants it to be his last. 

It is the first time that, though, his hands have been handcuffed together by metal links. Prohibiting his nervous hands from wondering too far, and bounding apprehension within his skin. Until all there was, was the tremble of his hands, the tick of his foot against the ground, the scratch of his nails against metal, and the minute build of nerves searching for a release anyway they can.

Apparently, some parents had come forward about their children missing in the short weeks since he had last stepped foot in this tiny hellhole. The DNA samples they found of the children’s remains matched the ones found in his mouth, and they had finally gotten a warrant based off of this evidence bring him in as a suspect.  The handcuffs were just a precautionary measure. Since he punched someone named Brain Zeller in the face on his way in.

Jackson’s father sits idly shifting through papers next to him. The rustle of papers is intensified by the silence consuming the tiny room. Stiles tries to focus on the sound of the shuffling papers in a pitiful attempt to battle the havoc his thoughts rage in his mind. The noise can do little to stir him from the agonizing memories playing out behind his eyes, and right all the hazy details of a man with blue eyes that plague the back of his mind like the glowing eyes that haunt his dreams. He fidgets in his chair, trying to clam his nervous mind, while they await Agent Crawford’s arrival.

Mr. Whittemore is calm and collected as they wait. Hands deftly ruffling through the pages that Crawford will need to sign before they proceed. Pen secure in his grip while he makes notes on a silver note pad he brought with him. Foot tapping restlessly against the grey tile of the room, and free hand drums an unknown rhythm against the surface of the table. He is everything that Stiles is not, and it only serves to foster the anxiety slowly growing inside of him.

They wait for a few more moments before Crawford makes his entrance. He is wearing a plain suit that camouflages against the grey walls of the room, and an overly sweet smile that makes Stiles want to projectile vomit all over him. The agent takes his time making his way to the table Stiles occupies. It is a power play. A way to show whom exactly holds the power in the room even without him really exerting it. Subtle enough that he can mask it as sympathy, but Stiles has been subjected to this kind of play enough that he can see through the charade instantly.

Crawford sits down in front of them, folding his arms delicately on the tabletop and interweaving his fingers innocently together. He smiles at Stiles for a while waiting for a greeting. Well, screw him, Stiles thinks, he isn’t going to be the first one to cave.

 “Hello, Mr. Stilinski,” Agent Crawford acknowledges finally, “are you finally ready to answer some of my questions?”

Stiles thinks about Crawford’s question for a few moments while examining the man sitting in front of him. He is smiling, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s the kind of smile Stiles has seen his dad wear countless times before when he was tired of Stiles’ bullshit, but he needs to get information out of him anyway. Seeing it makes him nostalgic for his dad so he looks down at his hands, or anywhere that can’t remind him of his past.

The thing is he isn’t sure if he wants to answer the questions Crawford proposes. He isn’t sure he can pull the lies off now that he knew the truth. Now that he know what he did, where he can end up because of what he did. He takes a deep breath in, and reasons with himself—if he could lie to his dad all those years he could lie to a stranger for just a little bit longer.

Jackson’s father is passing papers to Crawford before Stiles can start from the beginning of his pathetic little story, and he starts communicating with Crawford for for Stiles. Asking for emancipation and immunity as a barging for information. Crawford shushes him, and looks at Stiles for a moment.

“Ah, yes, Alana discussed this with me before I came in today. I am afraid I have little power over the court systems, and therefore cannot promise Stiles his emancipation. However, we haven’t sent the California bureau paperwork notifying the state Stiles is still alive.” He takes a pause smiling before continuing, “The bureau can manage to lose the paperwork somewhere during along the way. As for the immunity, I will grant it only—and only if—he answers my questions.”

Jackson father doesn’t budge until Crawford promises he will personally see to it that the papers are lost before they can even leave the building. Jackson finally relents then, looking towards Stiles to begin his tale.  

Crawford moves forward a bit, and it’s like a snake spotting a mongoose from its hiding spot beneath the porch, readying for the delicious strike, and his attack is coming in the form of carefully thought out questions.

\--

John bombards Stiles with questions before he has a chance to take off his soaking wet jacket. Stiles tries to answer them to the best of his ability with his dad’s chattering constantly interrupting him. Peter doesn’t miss the wariness flitting across the boy’s face when he notices who is holding his babies before turning his attention back to his father.

Some how Stiles manages to get his story out. How he had only planned to be out for only a little while but had ended up at the beach, and had ran out of gas. How his phone had died, and he had to wait in the pouring rain for a kind stranger to pull up beside him. Tells them how even then after someone had stopped the tires were cemented in the sand and they could not get the car out until the sand had dried. It was all a lie though. Very minute ticks of his heart gives him away to Peter, but it is an otherwise perfect performance.

He apologizes more than once for causing them such worry, and John nods before Stiles leaves to change out of his soaking clothes. He comes back down only to be braced by a whole new set of questions, ones he is more hesitant to answer.

\--

Stiles braces himself against the onslaught of inquiries Crawford heaves from the seat opposite Stiles. He tries to get everything straight in his head while he pretends to be calm. Tries compartmentalizing everything Dr. Lecter had told him to say into smaller groups. It doesn’t help in the slightest and only serves to confuse and jumble his thoughts more than they already were.

He doesn’t know how to start, or where to start. Hell, he was so close to admitting the whole truth and revealing himself in the process. So he talks them around in circles until Crawford becomes aggravated. Diverting the questions from Stiles to stupid things like aliens and unicorns, and pissing off even Jackson’s dad.

Then Crawford asks, “The other victims—the ones we found in between your teeth—mother’s died in car crashes years before they were abducted. Just like yours did. Now, I don’t believe you killed these kids yourself, and we have reason to believe who ever did this to you will do it again. All you have to do is answer some questions, and your free to go. To walk away from this completely free, but if you don't—” Trailing off to let Stiles fill in the rest.

Stiles takes a deep calming breath in because this is what he needed. This gives him the leverage he needed: a starting point. From there he can launch into the waiting and the things he shouldn’t have seen. To delve into the abduction and the finding the other boys, to admit the things he had to do to stay alive, to compel them into believing what he is about to lie about. Talking about these things is safe. They are the truth.

Stiles knows how to act this part out. Knows what the bureau wants to hear, so he puts on his best act and gives them what they want. He even congers up some tears from where he doesn’t know, but it gets the job done because Crawford even has some tears in his eyes.

He explains how he almost gave up, was so close to dying that he had accepted it and welcomed death like an old friend. Except that death was actually a real person and that person had saved him. Taken him and the bodies to the forest and left him alone to fend for himself.

Crawford asks Stiles to describe the man. By this time, though, all Stiles could remember was that they guy had some kind of weird beard. It had been red instead of blond like his head, and for a while Stiles contemplates on what else he decided this guy had looked.  

Crawford presses for more information, and Stiles describes very vaguely what he remembers form his drugged out conversation with Hannibal. He explains to Crawford that he was nearing unconsciousness and under the affects of various narcotics so anything he remembers about the man could be delusions of his intoxicated mind. It's all a lie of course, but they don't need to know that.

Crawford sighs, “There are some sick people in this world, Mr. Stilinski, you would do best to stay clear of them.”

 “Are we done here?” Stiles asks timidly, though on the inside he is a raging ball of self-hatred. Crawford reaches across and uncuffs him.  

“Yes, we are done here. You are free to leave.”

\--

The pack heads back to school the week after the fair, and it is only Stiles, Peter, and the babies occupying the Stilinski house for the next few days. For the most part Stiles holes himself up in Peter’s old room with the babies. The only thing signifying Stiles is still alive is the erratic beating of his heart, and when he emerges from the room to throw dirty dippers in the trashcan. Once he runs into Peter, and after that he smartens up enough to bring the trashcan back in the room with him, locking out Peter out for good.

After that, Peter doesn’t see him often. The only time he sees the boy is when one of the Pack members or John is in the same room as the both of them. Which is always at dinner or in the living room to watch a movie, and neither of those activities allows Peter to actually talk with Stiles about what he had said that night at the fair. Peter begins to suspect that Stiles is avoiding him just for that reason.

And, that is how it goes for a week. Stiles comes and goes as he pleases. Occasionally he leaves early in the morning before Peter or the Sheriff has awoken, and more often than not he leaves just as Peter is going to bed.

Peter hears Stiles talking to Jackson on the phone or on Skype. He still finds it bizarre that the two have become such good friends over the years since Stiles has been missing. Especially since the last time he had seen Stiles they had to restrain themselves from glaring each other into the grown, and  

Most of the time when they talk it is about trivial things like this Milo character Jackson is always going on about. Or, about how the twins are doing and if Stiles is taking them to the hospital regularly for check-ups. They even talk about food and Stiles almost always gives Jackson new recipes to amaze his finds with.

On this particular night their conversations head down a path that Peter cannot even hope to follow. There are whispered praises about catfish sautéed in cheese and tomatoes. Inside jokes about fishing boots and grandpa’s clothes. Something about terrible puns and classical music, and horrible jibs made at someone whose name is Chilton. It leaves Peter feeling like he had missed out on a whole other world that Stiles and Jackson had grown into, and it leaves him feeling secluded from the world that has become entirely Stiles and Jackson’s own.

Halfway through Stiles takes a sharp inhale because Jackson mentions something unintelligible about ears, fish lures, and throw pillows. He hears Stiles heart race increase and smells the onsets of a panic attack coming on. He also hears Jackson trying to bring Stiles back before he is too far-gone, however impolitely he choses to go about it. He thinks he might hear an apology hidden within those crude remarks, and Stiles must too because he heart rate is decreasing. Only the smell of melancholy lingered around the room the boy had holed his self in.

And then one of the babies squeals in laughter, and Stiles huffs out a laugh. Just like that the solemnness of the moment is gone, and they are back to bickering about the comfiness of a pile of dogs spread out on blue duvets with newborn babies snuggled up to them.

\--

The doctor is right; he does stop seeing the hallucinations not long after his first visit to the doctor’s humble abode. He still sees his mom sometimes, though that is not surprising to either of them because he has seen her ever since she died—usually only in life threatening situations, but Stiles thinks that something had broken in his brain during the year he was held against his will so he doesn’t press the issue.

Stiles doesn’t remember much from that first meeting at the doctor’s. All he remembers is finding out his mind had played an awful trick on him, deciding to hide the memories of him killing people. That he had more or less had a stroke that had messed with his memories. He can remember leaving the house with a strong sense of familial trust towards the older man, but why he couldn’t really say why.

It doesn’t stop the numbness he feels daily, and it certainly didn’t mean he fully trusted the man just yet.

The doctors at the hospital would have told him if he had a stroke he reasons with himself late into the night when Will is laying unconscious to the world next to him. They would have sat him down and showed him the where the bleeding and contusions on a X-ray screen. He doesn’t remember going through any of the rehabilitation processes the websites suggest and he is sure that strokes require that kind of thing.

He buries his doubts in Hannibal’s kitchen, mushing potatoes and dicing up tomatoes. He never touches the meat or looks at it, afraid of what might pass through his mind’s eye. Hannibal seems to understand because eventually he hides the meat, or stops buying it completely when Stiles comes over.

The two of them talk about nothing and everything all at once. They talk about he misses Scott and Allison sometimes. They talk about Will and Abigail and how they were quickly replacing his old friends. They talk about how Will acts strange sometimes, but Stiles never feels threatened by him. They talk about his captors, and sometimes they just talk about Will’s dogs. He keeps Peter and the whole werewolf thing under wraps though for fear of ending up in a pysch ward, and losing everything that was keeping him from going insane.

In weeks that come, he gets to know Will and Abigail better than he ever had known his father or Scott. He and Will spend most of the time the dogs on the front porch, and sometimes Will drives Stiles all the way to the beach. For the most part Abigail never meets Will, and the two spend their day’s lazily passing the time under the unrelenting summer sun. Enjoying in each other’s company even though it is all a disruption from the never-ending vacancy that has become his life.

Abigail is great and tries to help calm his nerves, but no matter how hard they try they remain just a distraction to each other. He sees it when they are on the beach, holding hands, and she is smiling but her eyes are sad and nervous. Hears it when they are talking about fathers and her heart sputters in fear under her breast. Feels it when he hand tightens on his when news of missing girls blares through the radio. They are pretending but it is okay for him because pretending feels better than when they are not pretending, at least for him it does. 

He even becomes quiet comfortable with Hannibal during these few weeks. He can't place when he surrender his charge wholeheartedly to the man. It had to be somewhere in all the sessions, and cooking lessons he comes to completely trust the man. Sometimes Hannibal would say something that was strange, that made Stiles question what they were really eating. Then the man hand him some green sorbet because he understand Stiles’ fear of human color foods makes, and it makes all the old doubts and fears about the man wash away. Stiles chalks up his strangeness to his eccentric character.

All this doesn’t mean he doesn’t spend most of his nights and days in an emotionless daze. Doesn’t mean he is anywhere near ready to feel again, anywhere ready to face the general populace he finds himself surrounds himself with daily. Doesn’t mean that he fears waking up and finding out this was all a sick dream, and so he locks himself up in Will’s room, surrounding himself with Will and his dogs.

\--

The Pack decides to take the day off. They all gather at the Stilinski house waiting for the Sheriff to get home from his shift. Derek has Laura placed on his chest while she sleeps and Allison bounces John-Scott on her knee trying to get him to smile because he is crying. Scott and Isaac are talking about Isaac’s new scarf while Jennifer and Cora talk about some kind of scary work out routine they just started.

Stiles is in his room taking a nap. He had told everyone that he was feeling ill, and had excused himself to sleep it off so he could make all of them dinner later that night. He hadn’t resurfaced from the room since he left three hours ago, and Peter had warned everyone about going to wake him because he is certain boy hasn’t slept a wink the past few days.

John shows up a few hours later when his shift is over. He stumbles into the living room, tiredly asking where Stiles is. Tension melting from his shoulders when Scott tells him he is sleeping up stairs, and Derek puts a sleeping Laura in his arms. A younger Pack member puts on a movie and they all settle down to watch.

\--

Stiles hasn't been sleeping well recently. Will stays up most nights working on a case about a missing girl. His furious writing keeps Stiles up, not that he could sleep much anyway—to many nightmares. A new piece of information Crawford had supplied often plagued Stiles mind too causing him to spend the night reconsidering his forming relationships with the people around him. It is on the third day that he decides that he needs to get out of the house for a while, and ends up sitting on Jackson's floor while Abigail talks about various hunting guns. 

Jackson and Abigail are sprawled across Jackson’s bed watching a ‘safe’ movie. They know that watching a violent or gory movie could send Stiles sprawling down an aggressive hole of depression—learned that the hard way when they tried watching the Saw franchise—so they are stuck watching some under budget rendition of Mean Girls. Stiles isn’t really paying attention to the movie, or how Jackson is comparing Glen Coco to Greenberg.

He is lost in the past. Talking to Crawford had brought back memories of Scott and his Dad. All the happy memories resurfaced to drown out all of his sad and gruesome ones that became the cause of his current emotional deficiency. And, something looms in the front of his mind that threatened to send him into a relapse.

Hands find their way into Stiles hair. Rubbing soothingly at his scalp as their owner peaks over the side of the bed. Abigail stares thoughtfully down at him before Jackson is sneaking over to peak at him too. They are looking at him like he is the fucking abominable snowman in the middle of the dessert.

“They found the bodies,” Stiles explains quietly, “someone found them hanging from Crawford’s trees. It was some kind of horrendous work of art, at least that's what Crawford told me.” He doesn’t voice how he thinks it was a

“That's good news isn’t?” Abigail asks, “ They won’t think it was you anymore, will they?”

Stiles nods absently, and heads downstairs to make them some dinner. But not before Abigail presses a reassuring kiss to his lips, and Jackson rolls his eyes at them. 

\--

Stiles makes his way down stairs shortly after the Sheriff’s arrival. He looks exhausted, but he says a cheerfully tired hello to everyone before leaving them for the solidarity of the kitchen. No one makes a move to follow him even when the wonderful aromas waft from the kitchen. He has been easily agitated all day and no one wants to agitate him any further than he already is.

Stiles stays in the kitchen until after the movie is well over and then he brings out everyone’s plates. They are decorated in tomatoes and cheese and a strange kind of meat. Stiles says it is catfish, and everyone tucks in, telling him it is delicious.  

Somehow, everyone ends up sprawled across the living room floor. All curled up in the each other, with Stiles in the middle of their little Pack powwow. Peter notices it then, the smell of blood, pain, and electric heat drifting of the teenager skin. He asks Stiles if he is okay and the boy replies with a tried yes. The boy’s heart doesn’t stutter, and it frightens Peter because he can see blood seeping through the boy’s otherwise spotless suit jacket.

Peter can’t stop his hands from wondering over the boy’s back, making their way down to pull at the hem of his shirt, and expose the injury hidden underneath the soiled cloth. His hands are close, so close, that they can feel the hard muscles of the boy's back. His fingers tighten in the coarse fabric so he can lift it away from the boy's skin.Stiles harshly grabs Peter’s hands in his own.

He forcefully tells Peter he is okay and to leave it alone. Peter nods dumbly, and retracts his hands. He is about to offer Stiles some of his, as the boy called them, ‘werewolfy’ powers for relief, but Stiles sends him a glare that stuns Peter into inaction and causes Peter’s hands to pull away.  

\--

Stiles spends most of his time in the doctor’s kitchen, in the doctor’s office, or in Will’s house. When he is not in these places he is with Jackson or Abigail, doing things that teenagers do because Will and Dr. Lecter both suggests he do them. They said it was good for his ‘health’ or something and he can’t disagree with them—he feels the closest to normal he can when he is with them.  

He always goes back home to Will, because Will had become his home in the few short weeks he had been returned from the hospital. Sometimes Will makes him dinner. Always something simple, like a catfish sautéed in tomatoes and cheese. Not that Stiles ever eats it but it is nice to have Will fretting over him. It reminds him of his dad so he tolerates it on his best days. And on his worst days he boxes it up and puts it on a self in the refrigerator.    

The conversation is usually stilted even with the aid of a little Scotch. Will discusses the Nichols case, giving up little information surrounding the girl’s disappearance. Stiles discusses Abigail briefly while he pushes the fish around on his plate. Sometimes Jackson finds his way into the house, and he and Will provide the house with enough snarky commentary that Stiles doesn’t have to talk for the rest of the night.

Will sees it in his eyes one night. It is the first time since they started living together that they had made direct eye contact. It happens over rice and vegetables with Winston curled around his feet. Will doesn’t say anything, and Stiles thinks that maybe his mind has over reacted. Maybe Will hadn’t seen anything at all. His hopes are thwarted when Will falls asleep and whispers things only Stiles should know in the darkness of the night.

He lays there tangled up in an overabundance of warm blankets, deadened to the warmth by Will’s restless whines. His outsides pressed warmly against another, but his insides cold under his skin. His mind indifferent to the body that lay writhing and gasping, pleading for them to stop, next to him. It drives him insane, and brings up to many painful memories he would rather be forgetting.  

Stiles drags himself out of bed, to get away, and fumbles down the stairs and into the living room. Absently pushing the dogs away as he makes his way to the recliner. Carelessly curling in on himself to protect himself from the chilly air of the dark room. Listlessly shutting his eyes tightly while he listens to the blood thrumming through his heart. Apathetically touching the scars decorating his forearms as he remembers the cool tingle of metal pressing against his exposed nerves, and the sting it inevitably brought when it was pressed too hard into him.

His hand has made it’s up his shirt somehow, and he feels the sharp pain of his nails dragging against the oversensitive skin held together by thin black thread. He feels the nails digging in to his scarring flesh, and reopening his wounds. His blood dribbling down his hand and collects in his palm. The red liquid pooling in the creases of his hand, and it is familiar and not holy unwelcomed.

He can almost taste it on his tongue and he wants it, god does he want it, but he suppresses the urge. Smearing a bloodied handprint across the arm of Will’s tan recliner. He knows Will will be angry with him in the morning for hurting himself again. He just can’t bring himself to care as the blood soaks into the fabric of the chair, and he slowly drifts off into a deep sleep.

\--

Peter has to attend a meeting on the outskirts of town the next day. He tells Stiles as much through the door to let him know he is leaving for the day. He doesn’t get an answer immediately so he stands there for a few moments awaiting a reply, an acknowledgement, or anything to know that Stiles has heard him. He gets no reply, turns around, and leaves the house.

\--

Stiles shows up at Hannibal’s house one night when the trees are still green and unaffected by the cooling temperatures. Will was not home and he heard something that sounded suspiciously like a person rummaging around in the kitchen. There was no one he trusted more than Hannibal and that is how he finds himself walking up to Hannibal’s door in Baltimore.

Hannibal welcomes him in and makes him some fancy drink Stiles can’t even fathom pronouncing. Stiles finds it delicious though and soon they are discussing the noise from the back of the house. Hannibal aims to calm him by reassuring it was probably just one of the dogs, and after awhile invites him to his living room.

Stiles agrees, but he stops cold in his tracks when he notices the flowers placed on the windowsill. They are the same kind that had made appearance in before he was drugged and dragged in a club. The same kind that was placed meticulously on his bed the night before his old life ended and his new life began. The fear that comes with this revelation causes him to abruptly excuse himself from Hannibal’s presence.

He leaves the house and gets back in the car. He pulls out the medicine bottle from the glove compartment, taking a tiny white pill from it. Rolling it around in his hand as he tries to reason away the fear that Hannibal was not who he said he is because they are a common flower, beautiful, and Hannibal has a lot of flowers in his house anyway. It’s the bodies hanging from the Crawford’s house that starts the doubt since only he and Hannibal knew the truth.

Sighing, he downs the pill and leaves the house choosing not to think about it too much. It is just a coincidence, he thinks to himself.   

\--

Stiles is sitting at the kitchen table when he returns. Rolling a small white pill in between the fingers of his right hand, and clutching a picture delicately in the palm of his other hand. Staring at the flimsy piece of paper in remorse. Peter is surprised to see Stiles out of the room, and he isn't sure if he should make himself known or leave Stiles to stew in his misery. Two shrieking giggles stop him from leaving the doorway.

The twins sit nestled on a blanket next to the kitchen table. Playing together on the floor with blue and yellow blocks. John-Scott knocks one of Laura’s blocks a few feet away. The loss of her toy makes her cry because she no longer has her plaything. The crying makes Stiles flinch before he looks desolately down at the babies sitting on the floor next to him.

Sighing, Stiles drops the pill on the table and stands. He moves to pick up the block and places it back in Laura’s tiny hands. She quiets instantly and he picks her up while placing despondent kiss to her forehead. John-Scott starts up then, jealous of all of Stiles attention being focused on his sister.

Stiles breathes out a laugh when his son stops his crying. A sad smile playing out across his face when John-Scott intertwines and the two giggle and shake hands. Stiles murmurs against their heads as he walks them away from the table opening the door with incredible ease. All the while never noticing man lurking in the doorway.

Peter moves toward the table when he is sure Stiles isn’t coming back in the house. The picture is facing upwards and he can see two figures entangled on a bed. He sees that Stiles’ head is nuzzled against the swollen stomach of a girl not much older than he.

The girl is pretty. She must be the twin’s mother, he reasons with himself, because she has blue eyes and pale skin. Her chin is shaped like the twins and Peter must admit there was no denying that the twins had been blessed with her smile as well.  

Her long fingers are intertwined in Stiles hair as they smiled at each other. Laughing at a joke that is shared only by them. Lost in the past, imprisoned by the artificial inks of a picture to torment Stiles when he felt the need to reminisce. It is one of those precious moments that should never be caught on camera, never be seen by outsiders. Peter feels guilty instantly for looking at it. It doesn’t stop him from regarding it curiously, though.  

The longer he looks at it the more flaws it seemed. Their smiles seem forced, not quite touching their eyes. The girl’s eyes seem heavy and sad. Stiles eyes seem blank and emotionless. Their bodies pressed together because they needed it and not because they wanted it. For some reason it makes him sad so he places it back down on the table, and leaves to change out of his business clothes. 

\--

Stiles moves his head to the side, nose trailing along the taught skin of a swelling stomach, placing soft kisses around it’s navel, and tongue slipping out to lap at the freckles surrounding it while his hands run teasingly around the tiny bulge protruding from her belly. Dainty hands tangle in his hair and gently tug him away from his relentless attacks. He lets her pull him away as he listens to her soft giggles, smiling up at her.

She runs her hands down the sides of his face, pulling his chin up to look at her before he can start blowing raspberries on her stomach. “My parents will be home soon.”

It isn’t a warning or a threat just a simply reminder, and he nods his head in acknowledgement before turning back to shower kisses back on her stomach just to hear her carefree laugh ringing throughout the room again. When she does it is like sweet music to his ears, bringing life back to his numb body, and awakening feelings he hadn’t felt in along time. 

Stiles doesn’t know when Abigail stopped being a distraction for him. Maybe it was during the countless hours they had spent nestled in blankets and pillows as Jackson prepared popcorn downstairs. Maybe it was when she had peed on a stick and cried in his arms for hours, or maybe it was seeing the first kick of two developing fetus on the black screen of a sonogram machine. Stiles isn’t sure what it is but it doesn’t matter at the moment because he catches the hint of a smile, and he knows he isn’t just a distraction for her anymore, either.

He knows that this is potentially more dangerous than anything he has done sense he had escaped _that_ house—save for the one time he had attempted suicide in Will’s bathroom. He knows that he that anchoring himself to a person right now, when he is in such a fragile state of mind could break him more than he can ever hope to be repaired. People change; things do not. People are not stable but he couldn’t think of anything else but Abigail and Will that he would want to anchor himself to.

He smiles against her skin just thinking about it while she tenderly messages her hands against his head. He resituates, settling down between her thighs, placing his ear to her stomach so he can listen to the chaotic symphony of two steady beating hearts beating erratically in time against the muscles surrounding them. The rhythm eases his mind, calms his quivering nerves, and brings him to the edge of sleep.  He misses the flash of light and the unfamiliar voice as he drifts into unconsciousness.

\--

Derek, Scott, and Isaac decide to take Stiles out on the town. They aren't telling Peter where they are taking him, and he doesn't like this idea at all. Especially with all the anti-social behavior that Stiles has been sporting during the week, and with what he had said on the ferris wheel made Peter nervous to let him go anywhere in public. Stiles didn't seem to mind though, and left the babies with his dad. 

A few hours later the boys come stumbling back with Stiles covered in blood. It is soaking in his hair and splattered across his face. Ruining his perfectly good suit. Everyone around him is freaking out, but he is outwardly calm. John is asking him questions and trying to assess his son for wounds, but Stiles pushes him away. He pushes everyone away with a unnerving calm, and lumbers up the stairs, quietly shutting the bathroom door behind him. The shower starts and the room bust into chaos as everyone tries to explain what happened all at once. 

Peter quiets them, and it's Isaac who explains it all. He tells the Sheriff and Peter about the girl who was pretty hot, with blue eyes like Peter's. Stiles had said he thought he knew her and needed to ask her a question really quick. Scott jumps in then saying Stiles had followed the girl and some shifty guy out the back door and into an alley way. Then the next thing they know Stiles is tripping over himself to get back inside, and yells for Derek to call the ambulance when he spots him.

Derek having smelled the blood soaking in his expensive suit called right away, little did he know it was not Stiles who needed . Stiles had staggered back out the door and did not reappear until the police showed up. They gave him an orange blanket, and his bloodied hands smeared all over it. He must have explained what happened but the Pack couldn't hear over all the sirens. One of the officers must have known Stiles because he walks him back to the Pack after they are finished questioning him. He tells him the might need to see him again, and that he would call with update about the girl as soon as possible. He told them to take good care of Stiles before leaving, and Stiles asked to be taken back home.

Stiles came down towards the end of the store, already dressed in a new suit. He was talking quiet and fast through the receiver of the phone. He hangs up and sits down on the couch to put on his shoes.

"Where do you think you're going, mister?" John asks his son as he puts down his phone.

"To make sure she is alright." Stiles replies with ease.

"Like hell you are. You are in no emotional state to drive." John reasons.

"Then you can come with me." Stiles says as he puts on a shoe.

"I'll drive him." Peter offers as he grabs his coat and opens the door for Stiles. He doesn't miss the glare John shoots him as he close the door but he can't bring himself to care.

"Did you hurt her?" Peter asks cooly when they are far enough away from the house that the Pack will not hear them.

"No, I didn't okay." Stiles says rather harshly but he isn't lying so Peter lets the subject drop.

Once they arrive Peter guides Stiles through the hospital, stopping at the dest to get information, and pulling him to the girl's room. Stiles doesn't get too close to her, but sits down in the chair next to the bed. He takes her hand in his and rests his head on it. 

They wait. Peter turns on the news and the court case of the century comes on, at least that was what everyone was calling it. Some guy had been eating people and got caught, and know it was all over the news thanks to some reporter named Freddie Lounds. Peter was really quite fascinated by the whole ordeal, though thoroughly repulsed at the idea. Stiles watched on blankly until he tuned it out and focused on the breathing machine.

The girl wakes once. She is delirious but lucid, and ask to speak with Stiles privately. Peter grants he wish and leaves the two to discuss whatever needs to be discussed. He goes far enough away that he won't hear them.

Stiles walks out, his eyes heavy. He talks on the phone in hushed tones. Peter only picks up a little bit. Something about a copycat and something to with a syndrome he had never heard of but filed away to look up later. When the boy is done talking he looks at Peter and urges him take them home.

\--

He gets _the call_ on a Tuesday.  Jackson is casually standing next to the microwave waiting for their mac ’n’ cheese to heat up. Jackson is complaining about his friend Milo, and his comments are so hysterical that Stiles ignores his phone that is causing the table to vibrate.

It rings more than once. He finds it strange because only Abigail and Will have his number, and they are usually never so insistent. It was usually one ring and a voicemail or a text with them. Never was there more than one ring and it worries Stiles when the phone goes off for the fourth time.

He is surprised when the smooth accent of Dr. Lecter rambles through the receiver and not Will’s guff Southern twang. He tries to pick up what is being said to him, but the voice is swallowed up in the background noise, beeps of machines and loud urgent yelling of some unknown person.

The news interrupts his listening. A breaking news banner flashes across the TV screen. The news anchors talking, seriously, about a father who killed his wife and nearly killed his daughter. They mention the name Hobbs when they cut to the crime scene, and a picture of Abigail pops up on the screen. There is blood, so much blood, and Stiles understands even before Hannibal can fully explain what had happened.

“On my way.” Stiles silences Hannibal through the phone, and pulls Jackson along before he even has a chance to hang up the phone. 

 

Nothing could have prepared him for this. No amount of psychiatry or rehabilitation   could have prepared him for the agonizing pain caused from the sight of his babies hooked up to breathing machines. For the fear that accompanies watching unfamiliar women inserting needles into their delicate veins, of their little mouths forced up by a tube that provides oxygen to their weak lungs relying on a tube for oxygen, and the way the nurses look towards each other leaves him petrified in his spot.

Their bodies look so tiny in the large boxes they lay in. He knows they shouldn’t look that tiny, that they shouldn’t look so fragile and broken before they can even understand their mother is slowly dying two floors above them, and that their grandfather currently being desiccated by lab techs because he loved eating people more than he could ever possibly love them. Before their little minds could comprehend

Jackson doesn’t say anything the whole time Stiles stands on outside the neonatal care unit, looking at his babies through the glass panes of a door. It worries Stiles because Jackson is never quiet, and if this is this bad enough to send Jackson into a vow of silence than what would he do when he needed a harsh reminder of his past after finding Abigail dead in a hospital bed. 

He feels Jackson guiding him away from the room, and back to Abigail’s room. Feels Jackson guiding him down into a chair. Sees Jackson spreading a thin blanket over an unconscious Will’s body. Sees him maneuvering Hannibal’s lax head into a more comfortable position, and brushing Abigail’s hair out of her face. Though none of them will feel it, or know who took care of them when they wake up.

Jackson sits next to Stiles, and somehow Stiles head ends up in his lap. The two of them listen to the steady beep of the heart monitor, waiting for Abigail to wake and grace them with her her smile.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title for this chapter is taken from Sarah Jaffe's "I am a Pretender."  
> So again I am sorry it took so long. I think the next chapters should come out sooner cause things are gonna start happen'. Also there was a lot of Abigail/Stiles I had and will have to leave out of the story because I don't think those snippets of time do anything for the plot. I will put them up separately though if anyone wants to read them. Feel free to leave a comment, and hoped you enjoyed it. :)


	8. Sing Me To Sleep

The sleepwalking starts a few nights after the incident with Stiles in the alleyway. It starts out with subtle signs Peter doesn't catch for awhile. Just little things like the sound of sluggish footfall trudging across the hard floor of the hallway, or doors left unlocked in the morning when Peter had been sure he had locked them the night before. The creaking of stairs long after everyone had went to bed, and things being misplaced whenever one woke up. Peter didn't realize it though until one night in the beginning of December.

Peter and John are sitting in the living room one night, dozing in the gently hum of the television, and patiently awaiting the evening news to begin so they can sleep soundly—it had become a nightly ritual for the two and neither of them where willing to give it up.  Stiles had long since told them good night, and taken John-Scott and Laura up to bed.

The familiar jingle of the nightly news sounds, and the normal news anchors flash across the television screen. They spend the first half of the hour describing the horrible events that lead to one of the most horrific cannibalistic court case to ever befall the nation and disgrace the FBI, at least that is what the man tells them. Pictures of another, older man, adorned in a straightjacket and mussel accompany the story along with graphic pictures of crimes scenes with Chesapeake Ripper written in gaudy fonts all over them. The nasally voice of the nightly news anchor is disrupted by a knock on the door that pulls the two out of their stupor.

John and Peter fret for a few moments over whom will get the door, and after a while Peter makes his way to the door. Only to be greeted by the metallic stench of blood and grumpy police men from a neighboring city occupying the porch with a confused Stiles in toe. They tell him they found the boy stalking around in his bare feet a few towns over, and he should keep in eye on him least he wants to find the kid drowned in a lake somewhere. Peter thanks them and brings Stiles in from the cold.

They look at each other, Stiles shaking from the chilly night air in his expensive silk pajamas with Peter standing close to provide a stable support for the boy’s body to collapse against. They are pressed close together. So close Peter can see the confusion clouding Stiles’ eyes, muddling his thoughts, darkening his visage with a emptiness Peter wished he could not see.

“How did you—,” Peter begins only to be silenced by the light press of lips against his own.

It’s barely there. Hardly enough to even be considered a kiss, but it leaves Peter wanting more. Makes Peter want to shove the boy hard against the wall and have his filthy way with him, but he hardly has any time to react before the boy pulls away. Stiles frowns as he backs away and maneuvers his way out of Peter’s hold. He shuffles off down the hall leaving a trail of bloodied red footprints on the floor. Peter thinks, idly, that he will have to bleach the floor before John goes to bed.  

“Is everything okay?” Peter hears John call from the living room.

“Yes.” Peter replies as he watches the boy disappear down behind a door and makes his way back to the living room to finish watching the news.

“Who was at the door?”

“Pizza boy.” Peter lies.

John raises his eyes in confusion. “Wrong address,” Peter supplies has he turns his attention back to the court case playing out on the TV.

\--

The sleepwalking starts shortly after Abigail is hospitalized. Stiles remembers the first time it happened because they were lounging on hospital couches and Alana Bloom had just left for work. It was dark in the hallway, and Will was asleep on the couch with Hannibal nestled in a chair next to him. He turns his head for a second, and when he turns it back around Will has gone. A nurse brings him back later and tells Hannibal and Stiles to watch him. They agree and she leaves.

They don’t talk about it. About Will’s increasingly dangerous trips outside the bedroom window, about the fact that two twins and a mother lay slowly fading away from existence in a hospital far away from here, about the increasing amount of empty bleach bottles in the trash bins, or about the killings and the deaths. Neither of them feels the need to know, to ask, or to hear what the other has to say. Stiles gets the impression that Will is not asking about the babies or the growing number of bleach bottles cluttering the cabinets because it is Stiles’ business, and Stiles is not asking about Hobbs’ death or Abigail’s hospitalization because it's Will’s business.  

Instead, they hide it away, the curiosity that is, behind false smiles and superficial head nods, over empty plates in silent kitchens, and the hollow sounds of their utensils clinging against the dull metal of the sink. They bury it under the classical music that breaks the silence in the car as Hannibal, Will, and he ride to the hospital every morning. Locking it up behind closed doors before they leave the house every morning.   

Hannibal watches Stiles sing to the babies from outside their tiny glass enclosures. It was a song his mother used to sing to him back before the incident. She used to sing it to him when he had tummy aches and couldn’t sleep well, and he thought that maybe, even if they couldn’t hear it that it would touch them in someway. That it might stimulate their brains just enough for them to open their tiny little eyes and giggle at him.    

“Have you noticed anything strange about Will lately?” Hannibal inquires after Stiles has finished his song.

“Not really anything _that_ out of the ordinary. I mean it is Will we’re talking about here.” Stiles doesn’t mention the sleepwalking. He doesn’t really consider it lying if he leaves out some vital information. The analytical look Hannibal shoots him prevents him from going back to singing to his children.

Exhaling, Stiles explains, “I mean, Will spends a lot of his time in Abigail’s hospital room. While I spends an increasing amount of time watching my babies’ toes and fingers wiggle from behind this stupid glass enclosing. Our paths never cross until it is time to head home, and then we start the routine all over again. I don’t really have a lot of time to notice anything wrong with him.”

"Perhaps Will is embarrased."

"Embarrased?"

"Yes, he did kill the grandfather of your children, and he is the reason their mother is in a coma.  Would you not feel embarrased to be around the partner of the mother you hospitalized?"

"He is not embarrassed. He liked it--killing them that is. That's why he can't be around me."

"That is a strong accusation Mr. Stilinksi."

"He looks like I did," his breath hitching as he speaks, "when I killed _them_."

Hannibal raises an eyebrow before he raises the cuff on his shirt to look at his watch. “I have an appointment with Franklin in an hour. Don’t forget we have an appointment tomorrow at three.”

“Did you fill out my prescription?” Stiles enquires as the man gets ready to leave.

“Yes. I have all ready sent it in. It should be ready by the end of tonight.” Hannibal states as he throws on his coat. “Don’t forget our appointment. Tomorrow at three.”

“Got it.” Stiles says, and he watches his psychiatrist move through the crowded hallway with grace.

\--

When Peter finally moves from the living room, he sees Stiles sitting on the floor with a bucket of water next to him. He is hunched over scrubbing ruthlessly at the floor as he mumbles to himself breathlessly. Peter can see the boy’s poorly bandaged from where he rests with his arm against the doorframe. Peter tries to get his attention, but Stiles only continues to repeat a song under his breath methodically.

Peter squats down in front of the boy, and jostles the rag out of his hands. Pushes the boy gently back on the floor so he can finish wiping the blood off the ground for the boy. Stiles stares blankly at Peter as he cleans. He plays absently with the edges of the bandages wrapping around his feet as he watches Peter from where he sits. He brings his legs up to rest his head against his knees and exhales deliberately.

Peter pushes the blood around the floor. It’s not his first time to clean up after something like this. In fact it hadn’t been more than a few weeks since he had been doing this exact same thing because some fairy got lose in the house, and he had had to take care of it for being such a nuisance to his everyday activities. Briefly reminding himself to buy more bleach before something needed cleaning so John wouldn’t get suspicious of what Peter’s been doing in the house again.  

“Your feet are bleeding.” Peter states nonchalantly as he finishes cleaning the blood of the floor. Halting his movements as he notices red liquid seeping through the boy’s makeshift bandages. Stiles nods absently but doesn’t reply.

Peter sighs, throwing the rag in the bucket, and extends his hand for Stiles to take,  “Come on, let’s get those fixed up.” Except Stiles doesn’t take his hand, and Peter has to carry him all the way to the bathroom.

Sitting Stiles down on the bathtub, Peter wets a rag and positions himself between Stiles legs. Taking the boy’s ankle gently in his hand and placing it on his thigh. He presses the wet cloth softly over the boy’s soars. Washing his feet as carefully and thoroughly as he can without causing too much pain to the boy. Wondering how Stiles had managed to get so many sores and cuts on the tops of his feet. Silently wondering why lesions looked like scratch marks while the boy sits quietly considering Peter with vacant eyes.

Peter tuts, as he aks, “What did you do to yourself Stiles?” Peter can’t stop the concern leaking into his voice, but it doesn’t matter because Stiles isn’t paying attention.

He notices them as he is dragging the cloth delicately over the top of the boy’s feet: two pink scars peaking out under the hem of Stiles’ ridiculously fancy pajama bottoms. They don’t look like cuts, but rather burns like someone had decided to put their cigarettes out on the skin of Stiles’ ankle. Peter remembers how agonizingly painful burns are, and he feels a whimper building in the back of his throat at the memories.

“Stiles,” Peter breathes as he reaches to expose the scars a little more.

Stiles snaps his legs out of Peter’s grip, his face changing from expressionless to terrified in the blink of an eye. He sifts uncomfortably on the edge of the bathtub and stands up awkwardly before blurting out, “I have a headache.”

“Sit down. I promise I won’t comprise your virtue.” Peter says drily, and pats the vacated spot on the tub for Stiles to sit.

Stiles guffaws as he makes his way towards the door. “Yeah, right,” dragging out the vowel as he stops to look at Peter from the door before continuing, “I think I am just going to take my meds and go to bed.” He grumbles as he leaves the room, blatantly ignoring his battered feet.

\--

All he wanted was some fucking medicine. Not to be buried alive next to a necropolis of rotting flesh and fungus, or to be thrown in his own special little grave in the ground. He did not expect a tube shoved down his throat when he walked into the stupid pharmacy, or for the anesthesia to wear off so fast. Did not expect when he got out of bed this morning that he would spend his day buried under a pile of dirt, unable to move, waiting for Will or Jack to find him.

He remembers this. The fear and the adrenaline mixed in with all the running and hiding. The constant tripping and slipping against the leaves of some unknown forest in his haste to keep moving, to keep going, to keep surviving. Except it’s not the same this time. This time the fear is paralytic, crippling, immobilizing, and leaves him to internalize his horror as moldy fungus-y flesh brushes against his hand in the breeze.

He remembers reading about this kind a certain kind of fungus for a school project Harris assigned him once. Remembers reading about how the tiny tendrils from the fungus stem forward towards life, reaching out towards their creators with minute movements through brown soil, and rooting deep beneath its flesh—and he prays to anything that those mushrooms are not feeling their way towards him at this very moment. He thinks this must be what the man wants, for something to reach for him as he walks the fields, for something there be something to reach back to him. To take root deep inside his decaying mind, and to pass no judgment as it slowly becomes part of him. Stiles pities him, really, for how lonely he must be to tend a garden of half alive people.  

A voice comes from above, muffled through the thick of the soil, but there nonetheless. For a second he chances the thought that he might have been found, but it’s just the voice of the gardener humming as he merrily tills the land above Stiles’ motionless body. He can taste the bile rising in his throat from the happy whistling above him, but then more anesthesia is in injected into his veins and all he knows is the darkness dimming his thoughts as an endless cadence of a mad man repeating in his mind.

\--  

Peter is afraid of what Stiles might do during the night so he quietly sneaks into Stiles’ room long after the boy falls asleep. Makes himself comfy on the edge of the bed, simply watching the slow rise and fall of the boy’s chest, hands combing gently through the boy’s hair to ease his quiet whimpers. Feeling warm flesh against his open palm as he gently messages boy’s head. There is the faint smell of electricity in the air, filling his nose, slowly intoxicating his mind.

Stiles is especially restless during his sleep, Peter notices. His pale hands tangling in the bed sheets, eyes moving violently behind closed lids, lips pressed tightly in a frown. Every know and then mumbling something about mushrooms growing from eyes and fingertips, and Peter really does not want to know what that is all about.

The smell of heat and electricity grows stronger throughout the night. Distorting his perception of reality, and accelerating his heartbeat at a maddening rate. He somehow ends up closer to the boy then he remembers. Forehead pressing against Stiles’ own, their breath mingling together, noses bumping against each other. Close enough that he could just lean forward and taste the boy’s lips in his mouth if he so wanted. Could just move his head just a little to the right and nose along the boy’s neck. All it would take was a little bite and then the boy would be all his.  

Stiles groans beneath him, and Peter realizes just how close he has come to wrecking the boy. He decides it is best to leave the room, and makes to leave. Disentangling his hands from the boy’s hair and getting up to leave. Stiles arm shoots up to grip Peter’s retreating hand and roots him in his spot. The boy’s eyes darting open briefly and Peter watches as the confusion in those brown eyes darken with realization. The hand holding his own tugs Peter forward, and Peter ends up tumbling down on top of the boy.

“Sing me to sleep,” Stiles mumbles in his sleep, his hand finding its way into Peter’s own and pulling it close to rest over his heart.

So Peter does, and as he does, he feels the nervous ticks of the boy’s heart even out under the cloth his hand covers.

\--

It is the sound of dull thuds and quibbling voices that pulls his tired mind out of the darkness. He is confused at first because the voices aren’t just one voice this time. There are many of them and they aren’t singing happily to the little mushrooms decomposing the flesh of living organisms next to him. They were rather disgusted by the sounds of it. And God, Will’s voice was the most divine thing to ever grace his dirt filled ears.

He tries to move his hands, his fingers, his wrists; anything to signal to the people that he was here, alive and buried under the ground they now stand on. But, his brain can’t manage the simply process, or his arms to numb and all he can do is listen to his last hope padding lightly away on the forest floors above him.

Fear builds within his chest with each retreating thump resonating through the ground around him. It is this panic that drives him forward, propelling his arm upward and out of it’s shallow grave. His arm rips away—hearing his skin tear against the restraints—and grips at whatever is closest to him.

Coarse fabrics scratch harshly at his raw palms as he holds unto a stranger’s leg like a lifeline. He can feel the muscles stiffening under his grip, and he prays he hasn’t just traumatized the poor thing for life because his hand must look like a fucking zombie coming to eat its brain.   

“He’s alive,” Says a woman and then there are hands pulling him out of the ground, wiping the dirt out of his eyes, and blowing the breathing tube from his mouth. Sunlight blinds him so he blinks a bit to adjust his eyes. His hand is still wrapped securely around some poor stranger’s and he looks up to apologize. He stops cold when he meets Will’s eyes, though.

Will doesn’t move, lost somewhere in his mind. Somewhere where not even finding Stiles could reach him, and it pains Stiles to see his friend in such away. Especially since it was finding Stiles that most likely but him there. He doesn’t have much time to think of it, though, because he is being manhandled into an ambulance, and Zeller is placing an orange blanket around his shoulders. They ask him questions, but he can’t answer because the flash of a camera and blood red hair distracts him.

An EMT pulls him into an ambulance. Taking him away from the nauseating crime scene and into the safety of medical practitioners. He can’t feel the sharp pain of the needle slipping beneath his skin as the world slowly faded away.

 

Hannibal is explaining to him how Will has murdered the guy who buried him alive as he resurfaces from the depths of his sleep. Stiles doesn’t want to hear about how Abigail could have possible died, nor does want hear about Will’s alleged triumphant over Stammets. All he wants is to sleep peacefully without any dreams of fungus stemming from his flesh, or bright blues eyes peaking at him through the soil. He wants to forget the pain in his side, and the fever rapidly taking over his body. He wants his mom and dad with the wind passing through their hair, wants Scott and Allison in the back of his jeep, and Peter sleeping next to him.

 “Sing me to sleep,” Stiles pleads deliriously through his fever.

And so Hannibal does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title for this chapter is from The Smiths, "Asleep."  
> I am sorry for the slow updates. I have been terribly ill this month and I don't know how long it will take me to get up the next chapter because I am still sick, but hopefully it will be sooner then the last two. Anyway, this chapter turned out more steter than I had intended so I hope you enjoyed that. As always comments are welcomed.


	9. Take My Heart

A familiar kind of calm settles over the room when Stiles’ emotions finally ease and the boy falls into a deep slumber. It’s the kind of peaceful clam that reminds Peter of his life before the fire and it disturbs him. Bringing memories of all the nights he had laid with his wife and Setting his nerves on edge and bringing forth painful memories that prevent him from a restful sleep.

Unnerved and bored, he checks that Stiles is still sleeping before slinking off the bed. He quietly treads over to the boy’s luggage and unzips the closest bag to him—careful not to wake the boy or the babies as he shuffles around the room.  

He finds baby bottles, pink booties, and eccentric suits filling up Stiles’ suitcases. He digs deeper. Searching for a link to the past. Looking for anything that could give him a clue as to why Stiles had left them so long ago or what he had been through during that short span of time. Gauze lay beneath a bottle of pain medicine prescribed by one Dr. Alana Bloom. Beneath medicine is a picture of dogs running through an open field with a curly haired man chasing after them beneath that. A women's ascot lay nestled—brown and white fabric muddled by blood—in a brown pea coat at the bottom of the suitcase. 

All of them things that have some significance to Stiles but does not supply Peter any information about any of them. Stiles own shrine to a past Peter was not a part of. 

He finds a tiny box with intricate embellishments adorning the sides of the dark mahogany. Inside there is a letter addressed to Stiles asking him to put the recipes in the box to good use along with strange hand written recipes Peter had never heard off, in languages he couldn’t understand. Their are recipes for Parmesan Crumbled Lamb Brains and Braised Beef Lungs that provides no information about Stiles' past, but only served to upset his stomach and unsettle his nerves even more.  

Sighing, he puts everything back the way it was before he had meddled with it and kicks the luggage in annoyance. It moves a little to reveal a stack of unopened envelopes. His curiosity gets the best of him and he reaches for the stack of mail. The letters are stamped from Baltimore, Maryland. Postmarked from Baltimore’s Hospital for the Criminally Insane, but they do not say who they are from.

He is about to claw one open when John-Scott starts crying and he drops the letter to quiet the child before his cries awaken his sleeping father.

\--

Cries of children startle him awake. A familiar woman sits at the edge of his bed. She is smiling at him and it frightens him.

“Hello, Mr. Stilinski,” the woman says, “I’ve come to ask you a few questions regarding your kidnapping.”

Her recording device sits on the little dollies the nurses use to leave his food and he pushes it as he processes what she is saying. After awhile he nods before stating, “You were at the crime scene when they found me. You’re the one that wrote that article about Will. ”

“You read it?”

Stiles laughs and shakes his head, “No, but Crawford won’t shut up about it.

“Tattle crime? Real creative there lady.” Stiles jokes but shakes his head. “Look, I am sure you came here looking for a story, but I am not really up to answering questions right now.  

“Than maybe you will feel up to answering what you were doing on this night. Walking on a deserted beach is with a heart in your hand is mighty suspicious Mr. Stilinski.”

She slides something into his grip. It is a flimsy picture of him by himself on the beach.  

“Care to explain this?”

\--

“Explain this.” Derek demands pointing a finger at the contents inside the refrigerator.

Peter groans groggily from the doorway. Blinking the sleep out of his eyes as he enters the room. Staring drowsily at his Alpha and nephew as they peak inside to look at the contents. They are disgusted and repulsed by whatever is inside, and Peter cannot help the sense of dread pulling in his stomach at what lay inside.

A green sticky note catches his tired eyes. He takes a few minutes to allow his sleepy mind to puzzle over the tiny scrawl before glowering at his nephew.

“Stiles has obliviously—very thoughtfully—made us breakfast. I thought surely you could have completed the simple task of reading the note he left on the door handle. Seems you have failed my faith in you once again dearest nephew.” He answers mockingly as he shuffles sleepily towards the fridge. Nonchalantly trying his best to ignore the hearts wrapped in thin plastic wrap sitting next to the pizza they ordered last night while eyes bored into his backside. He closes the door and brings out a couple of tuber ware boxes full of eggs and sausage.

Derek sighs and Scott glares suspiciously at him. He must have done something to upset them, but he cannot fathom what exactly he could have done to anger them. Well there are the hearts resting on a shelf next to stale pizza, but that is beside the point.

They stand in silence as Peter moves about the kitchen seemingly unfazed by the contents in the fridge. He strides across the couple

Finally, Derek blurts out, “I don’t know if you noticed, but there are hearts in the there.”

Peter hums, choosing to disregard the two and ignore the still bleeding hearts as he piles the eggs and bacon on plates for the three of them. 

“So it seems, but you did not come all this way just to inform me of the bleeding hearts chilling in the Stilinski’s fridge did you? No, so tell me what brings you here so early in the morning?”

“We came to see Stiles, but he wasn’t here.” Scott pipes up. 

“Ah, and when you didn’t find him you decided to snoop around the Stilinski’s kitchen. How noble of you.” Picking up his plate, he sits down at the table and tucks into his food. Seemingly unfazed by the organs chilling a few feet away from them as he warns Scott. “You really should stop hanging around my nephew so much. Pretty soon you’re going to be creeping around bedrooms and getting tickets for hiding outside of peoples windows.”

Ignoring the apparent dig, Derek explains, “We were hungry and Scott was going to get some milk from the fridge. And Guess what he found? He found hearts. Fresh—still bleeding—hearts. Who could have put them their?” It’s an accusation pointed at him, and Peter doesn’t miss the eyebrow raises directed at him.

“Well I can assure you, I had no part in their appearance. ”

“Just like the last time you assured us you weren’t the one killing all those townspeople?” Derek asks.

“I told you, they were cannibals who were threatening to destroy half of my play things. It was necessary for my enjoyment.”

“Is that why you tried to kill us all the time before that.”

Annoyed, Peter takes a deep breath in, “If you had guys listened to what I had to say we would have avoided all that. ”

He can see Scott is about to speak, and he doesn’t want to hear the boy question his already questionable moral integrity during the Alpha Pack debacle so he cuts him off with a wave of his hand. “All water under the bridge now Scott. Besides, it’s still not answering the question we are all dying to know: just who is filling the fridge with hearts.”

\--

Stiles couldn’t explain the hearts too her. He wasn’t sure what to do about the hearts at the time. There was no room in the freezer for them. No place in Will’s house for them so he dragged them outside during the night.  Drove them all the way to the beach where Walked them to the edge of the forest there, and buried them deep beneath the ground like Stamens did to him weeks earlier.

All she cared about was a story she already crafted in her mind. She wouldn't care about why he had a need to hide them, or the panic attacks caused by the fear of having them around him. She wouldn't understand why it had to be there of all places.   

 

Stag horns and cannibals are all the papers can seem to talk about these days. They aren’t kind to Abigail either, and Stiles cannot stand to see Abigail painted in such a horrible light by the media so he burns the papers after Will leaves for work. Then he fills a bucket with bleach, grabs an old rag, and makes his way to the living room. He motions the dogs out of the room and places the bucket down next to the recliner.

Sitting on the floor, he dips the rag into the clear liquid. When it is thoroughly doused he brings it up to the chair and runs it delicately across the soft material of the recliner.

Hands prickling from the bleach seeping deep into his skin. Fingers aching from the hold he has on the tattered rag he’d found underneath Will’s sink. Head throbbing from the chemical fumes impeding his airways, but he continues on.

Cleansing the fabric of the chair with smooth methodical motions and scrubbing the rag harshly against the old stains. The red seeping up through the white clothe to taint his fingers. Not that they haven’t already been tainted, but that doesn’t matter now. 

Reaching over he grabs the bottle of bleach and empties its contents over the stains. Retching a bit as the harsh smell of the chemicals overpowers his senses, but that doesn’t matter now. All that matters now is the bend and pull of his elbow as he works the cloth into the fabric of the couch, erasing all the evidence. The sound of his voice resonates rhythmically through the empty room as he repeats a broken tune. 


	10. Hunger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to update! But now we are back and here to update semi-regularly. Here is a super short recap of things that happened since it has been awhile.  
> Stiles got kidnappped. He ran into Will and Hannibal. He might have killed some people. He might be eating people. He got Abigail pregant. They have kids together. Peter like Stiles they be mates. Everyone is hunkydory in the peresent until they find hearts in the fridge and they are afraid of who put them there.  
> That is about it.

Peter makes them eat all the breakfast Stiles had prepared for them. Even though they are silently freaking out about the hearts still resting in the fridge a few feet away from where they sit. He sees it as a form of punishment because he is still angry with them for not inviting him out to the club the other night.

Derek and Scott talk about who it could have been who put them there while they eat. Obviously, it could have only been the Sheriff, Peter, or Stiles. After much debate they narrow it down to Stiles, but Scott wants validation so they decide to go talk to the Sheriff after they finish eating.

Afterwards, he calmly washes the dishes in the sink as the two boys make their way back to the fridge. He hears them groaning in disgust as they open the door, and take a look inside. Their moans are like music to his ears.

They are examining them with disgust like it's the first organ they’ve ever seen by the time he joins them.

“They aren’t deer, are they?” Scott asks prodding the things with his claws.

“They’ve been marinating in that sauce too long to tell.” Derek informs Scott as they stare disgustedly at the offending meat.

Peter leaves them to discuss so he can dress, and then he is shoving them into the backseat of Derek’s Camaro.

\--

Stiles is perched on the windowsill. He watches the swell of her breast move against the soft fabrics of a hospital gown, watches her eyes flutter open briefly as her mind darts in and out of consciousness, watches the way her mouth grimaces in pain when her neck moves the wrong way.

She isn’t talking, hasn’t been talking for a long time now. He knows what it is like to have the world pulled from beneath his feet, knows how it is to want to hide a secret so bad until he’s drowning, so he doesn’t push her.

Most of the time he talks about the twins. He recounts the results from the test the doctors run on their twins. Tells her they are expected to turn out mostly okay—there might be some upper respiratory issues later on, but he leaves that out. He tells her that they have started to let him pick them up and how sometimes he even got to hold them against his chest. He tells her all of this in the hope that the news would spark something in her, bring out the girl hidden somewhere deep in the shell he was seeing, but it never did.

Today he is here for a completely different reason, though. One he is not particularly found of, and he tries to avoid addressing it as he moves to sit on the edge of her bed. It’s a reason with a ferocious mane of curly red hair and predatory smile that could only rival Peter’s. He favors, instead, to rub her aching feet and compose his ideas before what he says can give the girl a heart attack.

“Freddie Lounds wants to meet with you today.” He says once he finally gets up enough courage to talk, and decides this is the best way to go about bringing the hearts up.

“What for?” She asks hoarsely, her head jolting forward in unease.

“She wants your story.” He replies while placating touches up her legs in attempts to ease her breathing.

Her head falls limply against the stiff hospital pillows. Her body thunking against the hardness in away that shouldn’t be good for her still healing body.  “What if I am not ready to tell my story?”

“Then don’t.” Stiles replies, messaging deep into her feet with, “But she knows about the hearts.” Stiles warns Abigail from his perch on the edge of the bed.

“Did you tell her anything?”

“No, your secret is safe with me.”

“Our secret.” She corrects him with an icy glare as she folds the top of her hands over the blanket. He takes them in his own.

There is a lot of stuff they need to talk about. There are hearts buried deep beneath the sand where Stiles wants to keep them. They need to discuss what they plan to do with the twins too, but someone is knocking on the door before Stiles has a chance to bring any of it up.

He’s expecting a nurse with medications or awful hospital food, but instead he finds Lounds wearing a hideous homage a to a dying cat. He can already see her eyes lighting up with an untold story. Her smile dances with glee at the prospect of manipulating the two people before her in some grander scheme to allure more reader to her blog. He can see she is already formulating an epic love story that is equal parts scandalous and fictitious and all together gross.  He wants to take that smile of her smug face but he laments.

“Mr. Stilinski, what a surprise.” She says modestly.

“Mrs. Lounds,” He replies icily before turning back to Abigail. “I’ll be outside if you need me.” He says placing a kiss to Abigail’s forehead and squeezes her hand reassuringly before roughly pushing past Lounds on his way out the door.

\--

Peter can hear the Sheriff and Stiles arguing before they even reach the front door of the police department. Parrish sends him a wary look from behind the front desk when they enter, and tells them that the Sheriff isn’t seeing anyone right now because his dead son it turns out isn’t so dead anymore. The young deputy also tells them that they’ve been arguing ever since Stiles arrived thirty minutes prior so they might be waiting awhile.

He nods his understanding, and tells him they’ll wait in the lunchroom until the Sheriff is ready. Parrish presses the keys to the lunchroom into his hands on his way. Scott raises his eyebrows at the exchange.

“It was my duty to make sure the Sheriff was eating healthy.” Peter says like it's a sufficient answer, and Scott doesn’t press it any further.

Peter sits in a chair he has come to prefer over the years. Derek crashes in the chair next to him. He leans his head on his Peter’s shoulder as he releases a tired groan. This doesn’t happen a lot, not since Peter killed Laura, so he plans to revel in it, but Scott and his inability to keep his mouth shut ruins their moment.  The young alpha had to same something atrocious about Jennifer’s teaching skills, so of course Derek had to chase him around the room, leaving Peter back in his chair all alone.

While they chase each other, Peter picks up a newspaper lying on the counter. Derek asks him for the sports section, and he hands Scott the comics before his alpha can asks him. It placates the two long enough for him to focus on the headlines. 

He only gets two lines in before the two go back to bickering like three year olds.

\--

Hannibal and Will are squabbling like children when they find him and Jackson sitting in a chair at the end of the hallway next to Abigail’s room.

“Stiles what a surprise.” Hannibal greets him cheerfully as Stiles stands to shake his hand. “And Jackson too.”

“Why are you sitting outside? Why aren’t you in there” Will asks as his eyes snap suspiciously toward the door.

“Well, hello to you too,” Stiles starts before finishing lamely with, “Freddie Lounds is in there.”

Will practically growls before striding to the door and flinging it open with Hannibal close on his heels. There is some heated muffled words uttered and then Lounds is flouncing out of the room with a livid swagger he did not know anyone was capable of possessing. Hannibal closes the door then, shooting him an apologetic look, and then it is just him and Jackson in the quietness of the hallway.

He tries not to place his ear to the door, but his curious nature gets the better of him. It doesn’t help that Jackson is totally egging him on with a stubborn determination. He hears more than he is ready to hear. The talk of death and desperation leaves him hungrier than he has been in a long time. He has to force himself to look anywhere but at the people surrounding him, and Jackson seems to get it so he pulls away form the door and leads him to the psychiatrics facilities’ cafeteria. Jackson gets them both salads and they eat in silence while he shakes his head at Stiles.

\--

The Sheriff is shaking his head when they enter the room with Stiles nowhere in sight. He looks up at them as they enter, and jester tiredly for them to take a seat. He must have a lot to tell them if they are going to need to sit for this.

“That girl from the bar, she went missing yesterday. They found her without a heart and impaled on a set of deer horns in the middle of a field.” He says as they take their seats across from his desk.

“That’s brutal,” Scott comments, his face contorting in disgust at the news.

“Yeah, it is Scott. In fact, it’s so brutal they’ve called the Feds in.”

“We noticed.”

“They seem like there a little far from home too.”

“There was a case like this up North a few years back. Some psycho by the name of Garrett Jacob Hobbs was killing girls and eating their remains. I don’t know all the details but he inspired a copycat killer. The copycat got the nickname Minnesota Shrike because he cut out a young girl’s lung out and impaled her body on a mutilated deer in the middle of a cornfield. The report said it was like a work of art.”

“Do they think it’s the same copycat?” Derek asks.

“No. That copycat has been captured and—as far as the media is aware—is still residing in Baltimore’s Hospital for the Criminal Insane.” Peter answers for the Sheriff because he read about it in the paper just a few moments ago.

John shoots him a look, before continuing, “Yeah, anyway, we were arguing because it seems he knows someone in the Behavioral Science Unit, one of the crime scene investigators—a one Brian Zeller. They seemed pretty friendly so I was trying to get information out of him about Stiles’ past. He must’ve told Stiles about it because this morning he came barging in ready for a fight.”

After a beat of silence, the Sheriff sobers up and asks, “So what can I do for you my favorite men this morning?”

They all look between each other. Waiting for one of the others to speak. Scott groans, not doubt cursing his Alpha duties before stating, “We found hearts in your fridge this morning.”

“Do you know what kind?”

“No, but we were hoping you would know who put them there?” Derek voices from behind Scott.

He watches as the pieces fall together perfectly in John’s mind. Derek and Scott probably haven’t noticed it yet, probably won’t notice for a while—Derek doubts Stiles’ intelligence too much and Scott would never be able to envision another Stiles besides the one of inherent goodness he remembers. But, Peter has never doubted Stiles’ intelligence nor the darkness the boy had hidden so well from the rest of the world. And, by the way John’s face is darkening, neither had he. He’s accounted for all that time that is unknown, how it could have changed Stiles in all the wrong ways, how they might have an intelligent psychopath right under his noise.

Peter knows this all in the moment John’s eyes snap to his in fierce determination. Knows right then that John isn’t prepared to treat his son as a murder suspect.  Knows that he is going isn’t ready to lose a son that he just got back from the dead. That he is going to fight what his gut is telling him until the evidence becomes to compelling to ignore. He knows how it feels, well to an extent, and he needs how to proceed from this point. 

There is a knock on the door before the Sheriff can voice his concerns, and an older Agent comes limping into the room.

“Sorry, didn’t know you were busy, but the lab results on the girl from the club just came in.” The agent interrupts, and Peter can vaguely make the name out on his nametag.

\--

“Sorry ‘bout that.” Stiles says pointing tiredly at the fading bruise on the man’s jawline.

He is sat outside of Jack’s office waiting for Will and Hannibal’s scolding from Jack to finish. He brought a salad incase it dragged on longer than he had originally suspected, and he is glad he did because it’s been two hours since the three and Alana had disappeared behind the door to Jack’s office. 

“I deserved it.”

“No you didn’t. It was a pretty good throw though. Wasn’t it?”

“It was really impressive.”

Zeller sets next to him on the floor. “Who are you waiting for? Will or Dr. Lecter?”

“Dr. Bloom, actually. Wanted to see how her meeting with Abigail went.”

“You know she’s not allowed to talk about her patients, right?”

Stiles eyes him with all the intimidation he could muster as he pushes the greens around in his tuber ware box.

“Well you’re not supposed to leak information about cases, but that didn’t stop you, now did it?” Stiles counters sarcastically in hopes it would shut the guy up.

Zeller smirks, and Stiles thinks the man is reveling in the fact that he can lord information over the boy. “They think Abigail helped her dad kill all those people.” 

“Are you asking me if I know anything, Agent?”

“Nope.” He says popping the ‘p,’ “Just thought you should now. It’s a better way of leaking information than sleeping with Lounds.”

Stiles laughs at that. 

“How are your kids doing?”

Stiles starts, it the first time anyone’s asked him. “They are doing better. I got to hold them for the first time yesterday. The doctors say I might even get to help with the baths soon.”

Zeller beams at the news, it makes Stiles smile in return. They talk about his children a little bit longer while Stiles eats his salad. He is quick to put up walls as the conversation slowly delves into cannibals and mushroom gardens, but they come crumbling down as he notices Zeller is just concerned about his waning mental stability.

He decides he likes Zeller. Sure, they got off on the wrong foot, but he sees a bit of his old self in the guy. All that fierce determination and arrogance often alienates him from other people much like Stiles’ own sarcasm and teenage awkwardness had isolated him from most of his peers. His banter and brooding reminds him a bit of Derek, and it is nice to think of him again.

He likes to think that he might have ended up like Zeller if everything that happened never happened. He could imagine ending up with a high-end job where he could impress everyone the useless facts he had complied in his mind throughout the years. That he might even had perfected a specific skill set that greyed his hair too early and wrinkled his skin because of the strenuous effects on his mental health said skill inflected on his mind.

\--

Stiles is in the kitchen when they get back to the house. John-Scott and Laura are rolling around on a blanket laid out on the floor near his feet. Someone else’s scent is all over the house. A musky scent that was not entirely Stiles’ protrudes from the walls. Something else is souring the place like lemon saturating the air with its timid animosity.  

Peter whispers for them not to bring up the hearts before they enter the room. He tells them it is for the best when they send him crazy looks. Eventually they nod, and they enter the room.

Stiles is busy cutting little tomatoes into roses. He must have heard what Peter said about the hearts because when they enter the room, he turns and says, “There were hearts in the refrigerator. Why would you not want to talk about that? They are animal if your curious. Got them at a supermarket a few townies over.” Even though Stiles heartbeat remains steady Peter is not wholly convinced this is the truth.

\--

Hannibal’s slices through the tomatoes, like always, with determined ease. The shininess of the metal his hand parting the skin from the meaty parts with skilled art. He is supposed to be watching, but all the red made his stomach queasy, so he focuses on mixing the breadcrumbs with the eggs.

 “Did you enjoy hunting with him?” Hannibal asks breaking the silence.

Stiles wants to ask with whom, but he already knows. Abigail’s father used to take him out hunting when Abigail and he were at the beginning of their relationship. It was all under the pretense of fatherly concern, of course, but they hardly every talked. He got the impression that Hobbs’ got a strange sort pleasure from watching him kill.

Hannibal’s gone on with his instructing by the time he has resurfaced from his thoughts, but Stiles has been to focused kneading his anger out that he has no idea how Hannibal has gotten from point A to point B.

“And then you turn it around like this.” Hannibal demonstrates as he coils the thin slice of flesh around into a perfect rose formation.

Then Hannibal is showing him how to get gut a heart. All the slick wet insides gushing out from an artery is enough to make his head fuzzy. The blood covering his psychiatrists hands enough to make all the blood in his body rush to his head, leaving him light headed. He just needs to sit down. Maybe even lay down. Right there on the cold tile of Hannibal’s kitchen floor. Yes, that sounds very nice, he thinks to himself.

“Relax, Stiles, it is just meat.” But then he is sighing and helping Stiles to another room.

\--

 “Relax, they’re not for you.”

Derek and Scott look up from their place by the door.

He is dropping breadcrumbs, a lightly beaten egg, parsley, marjoram, rosemary, and the freshly minced ham into a small mixing bowl. He works the mixture together with his hands until its well combined. He asks them to try some and spoons some of the mixture on his hand.

Derek is the first to try it and he pulls a face, “It taste like—”

“An acquired taste you haven’t acquired yet?” He finishes, laughing, as he wraps the hearts in clear saran wrap. “It’ll stuff the heart for flavor. Then we’ll wrap it in bacon and bake it for two to three hours.”

Stiles shows them the way to get all the insides out of the heart in the cleanest way. Scott and Derek are not fans of the mushy red mess slipping through their fingers, but Peter doesn’t mind so he picks up on their slack. He can tell Stiles is grateful for his help, and by the time they arrive to the task of stuffing the meat Derek and Scott have been denounced to making flowers out of tomatoes instead.

When it is all done, he places all the meats in a cooler, picks up the babies, and balances the cooler and bowl in an amazing feat of grace and then he is gone.

The rest of their day passes in an unhurried daze. He does some work on his laptop as Derek and Scott watch some bad cop shows. Stiles is gone for most of it, and when he shows up he smells of strange men and has this smile on his face that is blatantly suspicious to Peter. He passes the twins off two the others as he makes his way to shower. John shows up a little while after that and the room erupts in shrieking giggles as the twins recognize their grandfather walking in.  

John is silent as they all settle back down. All the wolves send each other wary looks every time he releases a heavy sigh. None of them wanting to breach the subject of Stiles, and eventually Derek and Scott leave for some kind of Pack night at Danny’s place. 

It’s later when Peter has settled on the couch with Laura grinning in his arms and John sitting in the recliner nursing a beer that John tells them what has been on his mind. He’s worried about his son. He is starting to notice things that Peter had started noticing days ago. He wants to know what Peter thinks about the hearts, and thankfully they are interrupted before he has a chance to answer.

They hear a crash coming from the general of the bathroom and they both start towards the sound. Peter tells John to sit back down, after all he has had a long day, he’ll handle Stiles. John looks caught, unsure what to do until one of the twins cry and he waves Peter off.

Peter leans against the bathroom door. Stiles is okay, mostly. He reasons the sound must have come from the medical supply boxes falling from the counter in the boy’s attempt to reach it.

He watches as Stiles unravels the makeshift dressings warped around his feet. The boy’s breathe catching as the cloth tugs at the wounds already seeping pus and break the scabs already forming over angry red flesh in disgusting yellow crust. It is amazing that the boy could even walk around on those things.

“That looks like it hurts.” Peter voices his concern.

“Oh, really? Thanks captain obvious, I hadn’t noticed.”

Peter makes a tsking noise in exasperation, waiting a moment, before moving carefully into the room to give Stiles the time to decide if he wants Peter in the room with him or not. The boy doesn’t tell him to leave so Peter takes it as permission to sit down on the floor in front of him.

“Here, let me” Peter says quietly.

Surprisingly, Stiles gives in. “You’re not going to defile my virtue, are you?”

“I’m offended. I am but a gentleman, you’ll leave tonight with your precious virtue intact.”

Stiles laughs, letting his foot fall limply into Peter’s lap. Peter rubs antiseptic into the sores, messaging them until Stiles moans happily. It is almost easy to forget that Stiles could be a little pre-rebirth Peter with his eyes closed and head resting against the wall. It would be so easy if it were not for the smile splayed out in sort of sadistic pleasure across his feet.

Sighing, Peter wraps new dressing over Stiles’ sores, and he helps the boy back down the stairs.

\--

The cold tingle of antiseptic touching his skin startles him from his musings.

“You need to stop doing this.” Hannibal sighs, rubbing ointment into the festering

wounds covering his torso.

“What?” Stiles asks playing dumb as he moves into the older man’s touch. The chemicals in the sticky stuff do wonders to the itch residing under his skin and he cannot get enough.

Hannibal lips are moving again, but he doesn’t listen. He knows fully well what the other man is talking about, but he isn’t ready to talk about this.

“They are never going to heal if you keep reopening them like this. You are very lucky none of them got infected when you were buried in all that soil.”

Stiles hums, and squirms when the stickiness soothes the burning sensations working its way under his skin. He can kind of understand why Peter went batshit crazy if he had to put up with this feeling for six years, and not having people like Hannibal and Will to help him through it. 

 

After they are done, Stiles helps Hannibal with dinner. Will and Abigail watch them from the island in the middle of the room. They are all laughing at a joke Will made that was about something vaguely creepy and undeniable poetic. He thinks it probably shouldn’t be funny, but they are all equal parts broken and narcotic enough for it to satisfy their darkening humor. In this moments, with all of them together, Stiles can forget about the insatiable hunger plaguing his mind. They are just enough to ebb the ache, but they won’t satisfy this hunger for long.


End file.
